The Heritage Conquerors
by DReyne12
Summary: My take on the experiences of the Malfoy family and the Golden Trio after the war. Mostly canon-compliant. On-going work. Currently rated T but may be upgraded to M in the future. My first stab at fan-fiction.
1. Chapter 1: The Heritage Room

A/N: I do not own _Harry Potter_.

This chapter contains a brief moment of animal cruelty of a fictional animal (to display the depths of Bellatrix's depravity even as a young girl). Please do not read if this offends you.

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Chapter 1: The Heritage Room

Soft footfalls carried Narcissa through the halls of Malfoy Manor. She walked aimlessly, wandering from room to room without focus or interest. Someone who didn't know better might even say that her footsteps were meandering. But Malfoys did _not_ meander. At least, they didn't before the war. Now, everything had changed. In this present moment, she approached each room with a mixed air of nostalgia and wonder. It was as if she was re-seeing these vestiges of her life through a new lens. Or maybe the old lens of innate superiority and nobility had simply been stripped away. She wasn't sure.

She walked with a light gray shawl draped generously over her shoulders, and she kept her arms crossed firmly over her chest, as if she were trying to protect herself from the chill and ghostly quiet that had descended on the house since her husband and son had been arrested the night before. The Manor was eerily silent. It was a kind of silence that the Malfoy matriarch had not experienced since before the war – before the Dark Lord had decided to use her home as his base of operations, and long before he had begun using her son as a means of punishing her husband for failure. The quiet could almost have been considered peaceful, had she not been so cognizant of the possibility of facing a lifetime of such silences.

Today, the silence was deafening.

Narcissa was a proud woman. Anyone who knew her could tell you that. She had, to her utmost ability, carried herself in life with class and dignity, even though she did not always deign to display those traits to those she deemed inferior. She had raised a son, supported a husband, managed a household, and she had done it all with flawless grace. It was this proud nature that caused her to note with pleasure the perfect order of the Manor as she moved from room to room. She paused only once – to straighten a vase that had been jostled when the aurors carried Draco and Lucius away. Everything else was as it had always been: immaculate.

Some would call her pride vanity. Yes, like centuries of aristocratic families before them, the Malfoys had often displayed their superiority through fashion, wealth, and airs. Her closets upstairs were filled with the latest fashions, her wizarding robes tailored by only the best. It was also true that Narcissa had dabbled in the Dark Arts from time to time, with an eye toward maintaining her youthful visage and vigor. But that was to be expected. If nothing else positive could be said about them, the Malfoys were a handsome family.

As she hesitated for a moment in front of one of the ornate mirrors that lined the front hall, though, the Malfoy matriarch wondered if that were still true. The stress of the last two years had certainly begun to chip away at her youthful appearance. There were lines on her face where she had never seen them before; her cheeks were pale – at least, paler than normal; her platinum-blond hair had lost its usual sheen. And she wasn't the only one. Lucius had certainly looked worse for wear after his short stint in Azkaban. And even Draco's eyes had lost their usual brightness since taking the mark.

No, the Malfoys had not come out of the war unscathed.

Not this time.

Narcissa was a strong and resourceful woman, though. After Lucius had dropped from the Dark Lord's favor, it had fallen to her to keep her family together by any means possible, and to find a way out of the predicament that her husband had placed them in. Not that it was entirely Lucius' fault, she mused to herself as she moved into the dining room. Spurning the Dark Lord after his return to power was an action that would have carried its own dire consequences, and their family had a long history of standing in the shadow of the most powerful witches and wizards. But Narcissa was not sure that she would ever forgive her husband for driving their son down that same path, for allowing him to be used like a pawn in a chess game. She had wanted something better for Draco.

These attributes alone – her pride, her strength, her resourcefulness – had carried her through the meeting she had held earlier with the Malfoy family solicitor. It had not gone well, and echoes of their conversation rebounded upon her now as she walked.

 _My hands are tied, Mrs. Malfoy. The Ministry's coming down hard on anyone who bears the Dark Mark._

Yes, she had been following the seemingly endless trials of former death eaters and associates with a keen interest over the past few weeks. Every day, it felt like _The Daily Prophet_ was reporting on another dark follower who had been sentenced to life in Azkaban. She had known that it would only be a matter of time before they came for Draco and Lucius. _And perhaps even me_. She thought to herself.

Narcissa was not innocent, by any stretch of the imagination. She had acted with cruelty and malice from the very start of the war. She had championed the pureblood cause. She had allowed muggles, muggle-borns, and half-bloods to be tortured on her doorstep. And while others might view her betrayal of the Dark Lord as an act of honor and courage, she would be the first to remind them that she wasn't a bloody Gryffindor. It had been a calculating act to preserve her family, a Slytherin move through and through. She couldn't help it if that one act just happened to lead to the Dark Lord's downfall. But she wouldn't deny that his downfall had also brought her great relief.

 _Oh no, Mrs. Malfoy_ , her solicitor had informed her _, Mr. Potter's testimony was enough to exonerate you_. _You have nothing to fear._

Ah yes, Harry Potter. The fucking boy-who-continued-to-live. She cursed his name out of habit, although tonight that curse did not carry any of the passion it had in years past. Her feet carried her into the drawing room just as her thoughts turned to Potter's companions. The golden trio. The Weasley boy, who was part of a family that she had considered blood traitors as far back as she could remember. And the girl, the mud— _No_ , she chided herself, _the muggle-born_ (Narcissa never said the word "mudblood" out loud – it wasn't good breeding – but she thought it often enough). Her eyes swept unintentionally to the spot where Bellatrix had tortured and maimed the child, and she was suddenly transported back to that moment in her mind.

She remembered that night well. She remembered the terror that had flickered over the girl's face before she masked it with impressive bravado – a bravado that had quickly broken as the Cruciatus curse had taken effect. She remembered all too intently the child's screams as Bella had carved that word, "mudblood," into her arm. Narcissa remembered, too, her own reactions; she had observed the torture with a stony silence, but all the while her unyielding resolve inside her chest had begun breaking down. The Granger girl had been a mere child, a girl the same age as Draco.

 _It could have just as easily been Draco_. She thought to herself, before shaking the memory from her mind and turning away from the drawing room, willing her feet to take her anywhere else.

 _Draco_. It was difficult to think about her only child right now.

 _I've put in a plea for him, Mrs. Malfoy_ , the solicitor had assured her, _but he's still looking at serving at least 20 years. And that's only if the Ministry decides to be lenient._

If anything had humbled Narcissa to the gravity of their current situation, it had been this small piece of information. Draco was going to Azkaban. Their financial prosperity, their pureblood status, their prestige, their pride – none of these could save him. Anger bubbled up inside her chest – anger at herself, at Lucius. How could they have been so misguided? They had allowed themselves to be blinded by pureblood mania, and now their son was paying the price. If only they had been more cautious with their allegiances, more calculating . . .

Her thoughts broke off abruptly as she realized where her feet had carried her. Lifting her gaze, she took in the Heritage room spread before her, majestic in all its grace and elegance. The room was a source of pride for the Malfoy family. To her right stood three floor to ceiling windows, each spanning five feet across, and divided from each other by short three-foot stretches. Through their panes, Narcissa could make out the sloping hills that encompassed the front of the Malfoy estate. Directly across from the windows, to Narcissa's left, was the Malfoy family tree. She supposed that most pureblood families had their family tree displayed as a source of pride, but the Malfoys took it to the next level. The entire wall was covered in black obsidian glass, delicate and opaque. The glass stretched across the ceiling, and also onto the back wall, which hosted a truncated version of the Black ancestral chart (a wedding gift to her from Lucius). Unlike the tree at her aunt's house, the Malfoy chronicle did not use portraits. Instead, hundreds of names and dates were neatly scrawled in silver across the wall. _Silver words to reflect their silver tongues_. Narcissa absentmindedly ran her hands over the names of Lucius' distant ancestors until she reached the wall's center. There, slightly above her head, was emblazed the Malfoy family creed: _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_

Purity Will Always Conquer.

 _Yes, and we're bloody conquerors now, aren't we_? She mused to herself.

She continued tracing her hand across the wall until she came to the three names at the end. _Lucius_. _Narcissa_. _Draco Lucius Malfoy_.

She paused, closing her eyes and remembering the day that she had been surprised to find Lucius engraving their son's name on the wall. Tradition dictated that the child be at least five years of age before being added to the ancestral chronicle, but Lucius had barely waited six months. When pressed, he had excused the action by claiming that the five-year rule was a vestige of an age when children often did not survive infancy.

"Besides," he had said, grasping her hands in his and leaning down to kiss her on the cheek, "he will be a dragon."

 _Hold on, my dragon_.

Pushing back the tears that she could feel forming at the corners of her eyes, Narcissa moved toward the back wall, gazing on the names of her own relatives. She paused, tracing her fingers over a single name, one that she had not considered in quite some time: _Sirius Black_.

Her thoughts carried her to a single memory.

* * *

 _The summer of 1965. She was nine, a month or two shy of ten. Sirius was five. They were camped out underneath one of the willows that grew on her family estate, playing with a kitten that Andromeda had given her for her birthday. They laughed as the kitten pounced again and again on a piece of thread that Narcissa had found in the bottom of a sewing basket in the servants' quarters._

 _That laughter had quickly died away at the approach of Bellatrix. The teenager eyed them shrewdly, and before either of them could move, she snatched up the kitten with one hand, holding it above her and cocking her head to ogle it one eye, the other hid fast behind a curtain of her long black locks._

" _Such a fragile little thing, isn't he, Cissy?" It wasn't clear whether Bellatrix was talking about the kitten or Sirius._

 _Narcissa opened her mouth to speak, but Sirius beat her to it._

" _You put him down, Bellatrix!" He had jumped to his feet and strode over to her, his fists clasped tightly at his sides._

 _Bella sneered down at him. "Oh, looky, looky. Brave little Siri standing up to big, strong Bellatrix." She lowered the kitten down, just above his head. "Come on, Siri, he's just out of your reach"_

" _Bella–" Narcissa began, but her sister cut her off._

" _Hush, Cissy. This is between me and our darling little cousin." She looked down at him, adopting a sickeningly sweet voice and batting her eyelashes. "What would you have me do, Siri?"_

" _Let him go!"_

 _Bella smirked, and Narcissa caught the mad gleam in her sister's eye a second before it happened:_

" _As you wish," she said, before throwing the tiny kitten up as high as she could into the air. Narcissa remained rooted in shock to her place by the tree. Sirius, ever the brave one, leapt forward, trying to catch the small animal, only to be tripped by Bellatrix. The kitten landed with a sickening thud, and the sound of Bellatrix's cruel laughter filled the two children's ears as she strode off. Bella would later apologize to her baby sister, claiming that she had been jealous that Narcissa had liked Andromeda's gift more than her own, and the young child would immediately forgive her. But in this moment, Narcissa stared at the kitten's limp form, unaware of the tears flowing down her face until she felt Sirius' tiny fingers wiping them away._

" _It'll be ok, Cissa," he whispered._

" _No, Sirius, it won't. The world is a cruel and unforgiving place"_

* * *

Narcissa echoed those final words in a whisper as her thoughts turned to later memories - Sirius being sorted into Gryffindor, and Lucius turning to gaze at her at the Slytherin table with wide eyes; Sirius befriending blood traitors and muggle-borns, and openly displaying such friendships in the halls of Hogwarts; Him defending Andromeda after her marriage to that muggle-born; Herself reading about Sirius being sent to Azkaban with a sense of satisfaction (with Lucius being one of the Dark Lord's most trusted allies, the Malfoy family had always known that Sirius was innocent); She and Bellatrix celebrating Sirius' death, before receiving the news that Lucius had been arrested that same night; Herself cruelly taunting the Potter boy and his friends about Sirius in Madame Malkin's last year.

Yes, the world was indeed a cruel and unforgiving place, and Narcissa had played a part in keeping it that way.

She allowed her fingers to once again trail over the chronicle, carrying her, as if by their will and not hers, to another name that filled her with trepidation: _Andromeda Black_. She had not spoken to her elder sister in well over two decades, not since Andromeda had fallen in with that Tonks fellow. Her thoughts carried her to another memory, a painful one.

* * *

 _Hogwarts, 1970_. _Narcissa was in her fifth year; Andromeda in her seventh. It was late. Narcissa was returning to the Slytherin dormitory after serving detention for hexing a snide little third-year Ravenclaw. The girl had thrown one too many insults at her that morning, prompting Narcissa to reveal that she, also, had a touch of the famous Black temper. She had informed the girl that if she was going to act like an uncivilized pig then she might as well look like one, hexing her into growing pig ears, snout, and tail before Lucius could intervene. Unfortunately, several instructors had also passed by at that moment, and she had landed in detention - a rather unsavory detention of scrubbing the floor of the Transfiguration classroom._

 _So, needless to say, Narcissa was not in the best mood on her return trek to the Slytherin dorms. She had just rounded the corner that led to the common room entrance when a small laugh caught her ear. She turned, and listened. The laugh came again, from a classroom down the hall. Moving as quietly as possible, she stalked toward the door, intent on catching some of her sly comrades in the middle of a good snog. She slid the door open slowly, carefully. Oh yes, they were definitely snogging. She pushed the door open wider, and then let out a startled gasp. "Andromeda!"_

 _Her elder sister was pressed up against the wall, her arms wrapped around the neck of the boy she had been kissing. A Gryffindor boy. A muggle-born, Gryffindor boy. At the sudden appearance of her younger sister, the elder Black pushed the boy away, her eyes widening in surprise._

" _Narcissa, this . . . this isn't . . . let me explain"_

 _But Narcissa was not in the mood for any explanations. What followed was a half-hour argument, and, eventually, Andromeda's confession that she was in love with the boy. She had admitted it in the hope that her sister would understand and empathize with her. But Narcissa had made up her mind by that point. Andromeda was a blood-traitor. She had fallen in love with a mudblood, and had therefore become mud herself. Seeing the steel look in her younger sister's eye, Andromeda ceased her pleading. It would do no good_.

 _And so Narcissa turned to leave, to go back to her dormitory where she would pen a letter to their parents about that night's events, a letter that would lead Andromeda to elope with the muggle-born, and to her being disowned by the entire family. But before she left, Andromeda tried one last time._

" _Narcissa, please"_

 _These were the last words her sister had ever spoken to her._

* * *

Narcissa pushed away from the wall, and headed back toward the center of the room, pausing at a set of twin white couches and a small cart of alcoholic beverages, a testimony to the Malfoy family's love of entertaining. She fixed herself a drink, and turned, staring up at the family creed as she slowly sipped the smooth wine.

Sanctimonia Vincet Semper

Purity Will Always Conquer.

Purity. Conquer. Always.

 _But who has it conquered_? She wondered to herself. _Them? Or us?_

She turned back to the cart, facing away from the motto. She poured the last of the wine out of the heavy crystal decanter, and lifted her glass again, taking a sip and staring glassy-eyed in front of her. Someone watching might say that she was merely observing the sun setting on the rolling hills outside, but the truth was that she was too caught up in her own thoughts to notice. She returned the glass to the tray before her, tensing slightly as she moved to grip the edges of the cart with both hands.

The creed echoed in her thoughts again.

 _Purity Will Always Conquer_

And that did it. In one fluid movement, she gripped the heavy crystal decanter and, turning, she flung it over her shoulder at the obsidian glass. As she released the crystal container, a primal roar of anger, frustration, and heartache flew from her, her face dropping its normal composure in favor of an incensed scowl. The decanter barreled forward, shattering with gusto against the engraved silver words of the motto, the impact point obscuring "Sanctimonia." _Purity_. Small fractures spider-webbed out from this point in every direction, stretching across the wall and onto the ceiling.

It wasn't enough.

Raising her wand, the incantation fell softly, forcefully, from her lips: "Bombarda."

The glass shattered as she fell to one knee, her palms resting against the floor, her head lowered. As the shards fell steadily around her, a single whisper escaped: "Never again"


	2. Chapter 2: Where It Ends

A/N: I do not own _Harry Potter_.

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Chapter 2: Where It Ends

Hermione Granger awoke to the smell of bacon and eggs. Sitting up and wiping the sleep from her eyes, she blinked once, twice, surveying her surroundings. She took in the familiar shapes of her bedroom at Grimmauld Place, where the trio and the Weasleys had been hiding out since Voldemort's defeat. They had tried staying at the Burrow, but after several days of waking up with reporters camped out on the front lawn, they had opted for a more secluded location. It helped that no one except the Order knew that this place even existed.

She rolled over and eyed the clock next to the bed. Half-past nine. Great. She had slept late, again. She was really going to have to do something about these nightmares. She shifted through potential solutions in her head. _Calming Draught?_ Maybe, but that was usually used to calm someone down after experiencing something frightful, not to prevent them from experiencing it in the first place. _Dreamless Sleep Potion?_ Yes, that should work. She'd look into brewing some, since going to Diagon Alley these days was out of the question. She'd be recognized in an instant. Sighing, she rolled out of bed and started to get dressed.

She had just pulled her jumper over her head and began to open the door when she heard Ron's cry from the hallway.

"Ai! Mangy, good-for-nothing animal" He yelled as Crookshanks darted past Hermione's feet and jumped onto her bed, turning to sit and look at her with a particularly smug impression on his face.

"You leave Crookshanks alone, Ron!"

The redhead appeared in the doorway. "Then tell him not to run under my feet. Blasted thing almost tripped me."

Hermione bit back a smile as she shook her head, and the two of them turned and made their way downstairs.

As they entered the kitchen, Hermione could tell that Mrs. Weasley had been busy again. Ever since Fred's death, Molly Weasley had sought to drown her grief in work, preoccupying herself at all times with cooking, cleaning, and baking. The dining table currently sported three different cakes and two casseroles, and there were several pies cooling on a side table next to where Ginny sat reading. Mrs. Weasley was currently hunched over the stove, preparing a mountain of waffles to go along with the eggs, bacon, sausages, and toast that she had already cooked. Hermione knew that in a few minutes, she would be hovering over them, pestering them to eat, eat, eat! She fawned over all of them nowadays, but the worst was Ron. She had tried to baby George, but the former twin had been too caught up in his own grief to be readily accepting of her constant attention. So, she showered Ron with her unending affection instead, and, to Harry and Hermione's dismay, it was really starting to go to his head. Just last night he had gotten into an argument with Ginny when he complained that war heroes shouldn't have to wait to take a shower (he, apparently, thought she had taken far too long washing her hair). When she had promptly reminded him that she, too, had fought in the war, he responded with a comment that made Hermione punch him in the arm: "Yeah, but I don't see anyone lining up to put you in the paper!"

Harry was sitting at the table with his back to them, _The Daily Prophet_ spread in front of him and a half-nibbled piece of toast to his left. Hermione slid down next to him, and he glanced over at her, a slight smile playing on his lips. As Ron took his place across from them, though, Harry's face turned serious.

"Have you seen this?" He said, turning _The Daily Prophet_ over so that they could read the front page.

There, staring up at them, were the faces of Draco and Lucius Malfoy as they were escorted into the Ministry headquarters to await trial. Lucius sported a calm, composed expression, even if Hermione thought she could see hints of anxiety in his eyes. Draco - well, Draco just looked utterly defeated. As the picture on the front of the paper cycled, Hermione watched Draco enter the frame, his head bowed. After a few seconds, he looked up, straight at her, and the sight of his eyes took her breath for a moment. They held none of the cruelty, coldness, or even mischievousness that she had seen in them so often during their schoolyears. Instead, she saw only fear and despair. Those eyes transported her temporarily back to herself sprawled on the floor of the Malfoy family drawing room, searching for help and finding him staring down at her, his father's hand splayed across his chest to keep him from surging forward; back to the Room of Requirement, her, Ron, and Harry barreling toward Draco as the flames threatened to engulf him; back to that day, when they thought Harry was dead, when Draco was called to rejoin the other side and seemed reluctant to go. Shaking her head, she pushed these thoughts from her mind and turned to the conversation that Harry and Ron had started without her.

"Don't know why you did it, mate." Ron was saying, mouth full of half-chewed sausage, "My opinion, she should rot like the rest of her family."

Harry picked up his toast. "It was the right thing to do, that's why." He said, taking a bite.

"But she just stood there and watched Hermione being tortured by her lunatic sister!"

"Ron!" Harry spat out in a gritted whisper, jerking his head and darting his eyes sideways at Hermione, but Ron didn't take the hint.

"Well I'm sorry if I'm defensive of my girlfriend," Ron's voice began to raise. "How would you feel if Ginny had been held down and had "blood traitor" carved into her arm? Prolly wouldn't have testified then, would you?" Hermione noticed that Ginny had lifted her head at the mention of her name, and was now glaring daggers at the back of her brother's head.

"What are you suggesting?" Harry's eyes had narrowed dangerously, and Hermione knew that now was the time to intervene.

"Ron, I don't blame Harry for testifying. She did help us win the war."

"But –" Ron began, but Hermione quickly reached across the table and shoved a piece of toast into his mouth.

"No buts." She said, settling back down next to Harry. She clasped her hands before her on the table, and took a deep breath before continuing in almost a whisper: "We all did things in the war that we're not proud of. But in the end, she helped us defeat him. I don't care about anything else. It's over."

 _I don't care about anything else_.

 _It's over_.

The words had fallen uncomfortably out of her mouth, and she wondered just how true they were. Did she really not care? Was it all really over? If so, why did she still have trouble sleeping at night?

"Mione." Harry's voice was soft, almost pleading. She turned to find him studying her carefully. Not wanting to talk about Narcissa Malfoy anymore, or worse, her torture at the hands of Bellatrix, Hermione quickly shifted the subject of the conversation.

"When's the trial?" She said, gesturing toward the front page of _The Prophet_. Her stomach did a small flip as Draco's eyes lifted momentarily to haunt her once again.

"Friday." Harry answered. "They've set Lucius' for the day after."

"They're convening the Wizengamot on a Saturday?" Ron asked, incredulous. "They must really be out for him. Special session and everything."

Harry nodded, staring absentmindedly down at the paper, only to have his vision quickly obscured by a stack of waffles that Mrs. Weasley had shoved under his nose. "Kingsley said they've been trying to put Mr. Malfoy away for a long time. There are a lot of people at the Ministry who aren't too happy about him being released last year."

"Well, they should get their wish. All Death Eaters who've been tried so far have been given life in Azkaban." Hermione added. "Thank you," she said to Mrs. Weasley, who had just deposited a second stack of waffles in front of her.

"Draco must be terrified. Imagine being seventeen or eighteen and facing life in prison." Ginny plopped down at the table next to her brother, and, picking up a fork, reached over and stabbed one of Harry's waffles, pulling off a large bite-size piece that quickly found its way into her mouth.

"Hey!" Ginny answered Harry's protest with an innocent smile, and her boyfriend's next retort died on his lips as Ron spoke up.

"Serves him right. After everything he did, he deserves to be in there."

"I don't know," Harry responded, cautiously, "I think Draco was under a lot of pressure during the war. I'm not sure if he even wanted to do half the stuff he did."

"He's a Death Eater! He let Death Eaters into the school! Are you forgetting that he poisoned me and cursed Katie Bell! And he set the Room of Requirement on fire!"

"That was Crabbe," Hermione amended, but Ron wasn't listening.

"He or his family have tried to kill us I don't know how many times since this bloody war started, and now you're defending him? You lot are unreal!"

Harry ran an agitated hand through his raven-black hair, causing it to stick up even more than normal. "I almost killed him last year, as well. And I used the Cruciatus on Bellatrix at the Department of Mysteries in fifth year. Maybe I should be locked up too."

"Not to mention the fact that we also broke into the Ministry" Ginny said.

"And Gringotts." Hermione added.

"That's different. We're the good guys! We're war heroes!"

"Yes," Harry said, "and if the situation was reversed, Draco would be the hero and we'd be the ones looking at a lifetime in Azkaban"

"No, no mate. We're the good guys." Ron was motioning emphatically with his hands now. "Draco and his lot, they're the bad guys, and in my opinion, they should all rot in prison. It'll make the world a better place. Trust me, alright?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, because that worked so well after the first war, didn't it?"

Ron shot her an incredulous glance. "What do you mean?"

Hermione stood up abruptly, startling her boyfriend as leaning over the table so that she towered over him. "What I mean, Ronald, is that I'm not so sure it's a good idea to just start throwing people in prison unilaterally without considering them on a case to case basis. All the Ministry is doing is breeding more hatred and resentment, and, ultimately, nothing is going to change. Our children are going to grow up in the same prejudiced and cruel world, and your black-and-white approach to the Malfoys is just as blinded as pureblood attitudes toward Muggle-borns. I mean, where does it end?"

Finishing, she sat down with a huff, but Ron was now looking at her like she had grown a second head. "Bloody unreal," he mumbled, abandoning the stack of waffles his mother had just sat down in front of him and stalking out of the room.

Hermione looked at Ginny and Harry, both of them contemplating her with puzzling eyes. Her voice came out barely above a whisper: "I just want to know where it ends."

* * *

In a small room in the upstairs of the Leaky Cauldron, Narcissa Malfoy was pacing. She wasn't even sure what she was doing here, or what had compelled her to ask for this meeting. She paced back and forth, pausing every few moments to gaze impatiently at the clock on the mantelpiece. 10:17 am. _This was a terrible idea_ , she thought. She paused, listening to the sounds that echoed up from the pub downstairs. She could just make out a woman's high-pitched laughter, and the sound of a lower, baritone voice calling for another ale. She took up pacing again, pulling her shawl more tightly around her, even though warm summer air was wafting in from the window. 10:18 am. Striding over to the window, she pulled it shut, cutting off any noise from Diagon Alley below. A scene on the street caught her eye, and she watched for a moment as a young boy strode out of one of the shops. One hand was latched tight to his mother, the other clung to a new broomstick. He was beaming. _Just like Draco at that age_. She mused. Another glance at the clock: 10:19 am. _Terrible, ludicrous idea_. Shaking her head, she moved toward a side table to retrieve her clutch purse. She would leave, and everything would go back to normal.

"Hello, Narcissa," This new voice made the Malfoy Matriarch freeze in her tracks. She turned slowly toward the door, her eyes seeking out the voice's owner. Before her, she saw a face that she had not beheld in a very long time. Andromeda Tonks. Her sister.

"Andromeda." Straightening immediately, Narcissa inclined her head toward her elder sibling as a way of greeting. She clasped her hands in front of her, striving in vain to keep from fidgeting. She was well-practiced at remaining calm and composed in delicate situations, but today her nerves sought to betray her despite her efforts to control them.

Andromeda stared at her out of tired, yet fierce eyes, and an icy tension filled the room. The elder Black sibling had aged since Narcissa last saw her, but then, she supposed, so had she. Touches of gray were starting to appear in Andromeda's long, black tresses, and her face had begun to lose its youthful firmness. But, Narcissa noted, there was still a fire there. She could see it burning behind Andromeda's eyes. This was not going to be easy.

"How is your grandson?" Narcissa inquired, yearning to somehow break the tension.

"I left him in capable hands." Andromeda's answer was curt, sharp.

"Good. That's good." Narcissa smiled softly, but her sister's mouth did not alter from the thin, tense line it had adopted since she entered the room. The Malfoy matriarch tried again, grappling for something to discuss. But she found that she didn't know much about her sister at all these days. In the end, she settled for the most obvious. "The weather is beautiful today."

"Narcissa, I did not come here to exchange niceties with you. What do you want?"

"I'm sure you've seen the _Prophet_."

"I have"

"Then you are aware of my situation." It was a statement, not a question.

"I am"

Narcissa hesitated. Her sister's face had settled into an expression of stony fierceness, and her eyes were cold and stern. Narcissa had always prided herself on inheriting the cool, composed, and commanding airs of their mother. Andromeda, in contrast, had always been rather warm and compassionate, but now Narcissa found herself peering into a face that so much resembled their mother that it shook her internally, threatening to disarm the younger Black of her own cool, collected nature. She took a breath.

"I need your help, Andromeda." Another statement. _Malfoys do not plead_. Narcissa reminded herself.

When her sister's expression did not change in the slightest, she continued, coolly, as if she were discussing an extensive business arrangement.

"Though I loathe to admit it, the Malfoy name does not carry the weight that it once did. If falling out of favor with the Dark Lord did not do enough to break down our old alliances, then my actions at the war's end have more than assured that the large majority of pureblood families view us as blood traitors." Narcissa paused, turning to stare down at the clutch in her hands. "This is not to mention the fact that many of those I would have normally turned to for help are either dead or facing a lifetime in Azkaban."

She raised her eyes back to Andromeda, and found her sister listening intently.

"I betrayed my old allegiances to save my family. I do not regret it, for my son is alive. But now . . ." Narcissa paused again, as if trying to figure out how to phrase her next sentence. "I have no ties to anyone on this side of the war. I have no influence, nothing to bargain with to save my child from a lifetime of imprisonment." She hesitated. "But you do." As she spoke this last sentence, she bowed her head slightly, for emphasis, though her eyes never strayed from Andromeda's.

"I fear that, without your help, my sacrifice might have been in vain. Life in Azkaban is no life worth living."

Andromeda inhaled deeply as her sister finished, her eyes roaming from Narcissa's face to an upper corner of the room as she fell deep into thought. Her younger sister waited with bated breath, the moments before Andromeda finally spoke feeling like hours.

"What would you have me do, Narcissa?"

Encouraged slightly by the question, the younger Black began carefully: "I expect no aid in terms of Lucius' situation. He has made his bed and now, it seems, he must lie in it"

Andromeda nodded once.

"But if you could do something, anything, for Draco . . ."

Narcissa cut off sharply at the incredulous look on her older sister's face. It was a moment before Andromeda spoke, as if she were trying to find the right words to express herself.

"So, you expect me to clean up the mess your son has made for himself? To use my influence to talk the Ministry out of handing out a sentence that he justly deserves?"

"Draco is only a boy! He's barely of age!"

At her sibling's outburst, the elder Black sister tilted her head slightly, surveying Narcissa for a moment before turning to stare down into the fireplace. She seemed to be thinking, and when she spoke, her voice was soft.

"You must care for him a great deal if you were willing to betray the Dark Lord for him," She said, "and if you are willing to now seek out my help."

Now Narcissa looked incredulous. "He's my son. Would you have done any less for Nymphadora?"

At the mention of her daughter's name, Andromeda's eyes flashed. She was across the room in an instant, her wand trained on her sister's heart. "Don't"

Narcissa merely raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"Don't use my love for my daughter as a bargaining chip. I would, of course, have gone to any length to protect her, but that didn't matter in the end. Tell me, how did you celebrate when you found out she was dead?" Andromeda's voice had taken on a mocking tone. "Champagne? Fireworks? A romp in the sack with that despicable husband of yours?"

Narcissa bit back a sharp retort that Nymphadora had not been worth fireworks or champagne.

"Do not confuse me with Bellatrix, Andromeda." She snarled.

The two sisters stared at each other, each struggling to control the famous Black temper. In the end, Narcissa backed down first, much to her sister's surprise.

"I did not come here to fight."

Andromeda lowered her wand, huffing as she crossed her arms and looked away.

Narcissa was not about to let _that_ little act pass unnoticed. She took a step forward, her words spilling out far more aggressively than she meant for them to.

"You can't possibly understand. This war has taken everything. Everything! My reputation is in shambles. I have no one to turn to – no friends, no acquaintances. Do you know what it's like to have your family arrested in front of your eyes? To know that they will probably be taken from you forever? No, how could you? You have no conception of honor, or pride." Andromeda's eyes flashed again, and Narcissa knew she was stepping over the line. She couldn't stop herself from barreling forward, though. "I can't face a lifetime in that house alone. I will go insane!"

"Then get a dog." Her sister spat, "Or better yet, a lover"

"How _dare_ you -"

Andromeda cut her off. "Merlin, you are just as selfish as ever." She spoke through clenched teeth. "I can't understand? How dare _you_!You are not the only one who has lost something in this war, Narcissa. Your husband and son are looking at a lifetime in Azkaban? My husband and child are dead. My son-in-law too. I have a grandson who will grow up never knowing his parents. So, trust me when I say that I have more important things to worry about than your son."

The same anger that she had experienced the night before bubbled up in Narcissa's chest and her face contorted in rage. But before she could get a word out, Andromeda spoke again, a finality present in her tone.

"This conversation is over."

And then, her sister was turning, heading for the door, and Narcissa's anger was immediately replaced with desperation. She wondered if this was how her sister had felt all those years ago, and that thought, more than anything else, drove her last, pleading words, out of her mouth:

"Andromeda, please"

* * *

Hermione Granger could not stop thinking about Draco Malfoy, and it was really starting to piss her off. She was now back in her room, lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling. After breakfast, Andromeda had stopped by to drop off Teddy, asserting that she had a few errands that she needed to run. So, while Harry and Ginny entertained his godson, Hermione had retreated to her room, intent on catching up on some reading. They were due back at Hogwarts at the beginning of next week to help finish off the reconstruction, and Hermione wanted to refresh herself on various protection spells that might be needed when exploring the inner workings of the castle. But she couldn't focus. Her mind kept returning to the blond-haired boy in the _Prophet_. When Ron had come in for a quick snog, she had been all too happy for any distraction, but Draco's face had kept flashing through her head, making it difficult to concentrate. Ron had eventually left in a huff, irritated by her distracted state. She couldn't say she blamed him.

So now she lay back on the bed, willing herself to stop thinking about Malfoy. Really, what had the ferret ever done for them, anyway. _He was a bully_. She reminded herself, thinking back over all the times Draco had taunted and tormented them at Hogwarts. _Neville's remembrall_. She reminded herself. _The "Potter Stinks" badges. The Inquisitorial Squad. The Densaugeo hex._ She grimaced as she remembered being hit by Draco's spell in their fourth year. Her teeth had grown down well below her collarbone before she had reached the infirmary. Thinking about it now, she tried to hold onto her feeling of humiliation from that day, but she couldn't. In the end, Malfoy had done her a favor; her front teeth were now smaller than they had been before. _Plus, it's funny, isn't it. The daughter of two dentists being hit with a tooth-growing curse_. She stifled a giggle, and then, frowning suddenly, she returned to the task at hand – reminding herself why she hated Draco Malfoy. _Mudblood_. She let the word turn over in her mind, absentmindedly running her hand over the scar on her arm. But the only thing the word brought to mind was a pair of haunting, fearful eyes staring up at her from the front page of the morning paper. She sighed. This was not working.

Exasperated, she rolled off her bed and headed downstairs. Maybe Teddy would take her mind off the blond-haired menace.

* * *

The street was deserted, even though it was mid-day. Narcissa recognized this neighborhood. It was an old one, nestled in northwest London, and it had not changed much since the last time she had been here. Wrought-iron décor still accented the houses. Untamed vegetation still crept through the fence behind them, threatening to overtake the order of the street below their feet. And the numbering on the townhouses still skipped from 11 to 13.

To her left, Andromeda was muttering softly, and then, before her eyes, the townhouses began to move apart as another stretched between them.

Number 12 Grimmauld Place. The Black ancestral home.

"Why have you brought me here?" Narcissa asked softly. She had not stepped foot inside the house since she was a child.

"I said I would bring you to those who could help you better than I can," Andromeda explained, gesturing toward the townhouse, "and so I have. I make no promises about their willingness to lend you aid, though."

Narcissa answered with a single nod of understanding as they approached the door. She held her breath as Andromeda raised her fist, and knocked.

* * *

Everyone was gathered in the kitchen when Hermione entered. Mrs. Weasley was bustling about the stove (now preparing a feast for lunch), while Harry was holding Teddy in his lap at the table, with Ginny and Ron both peering over his shoulders. They were all laughing as Ron made pig-sounds at the child and Teddy attempted to imitate Ron's scrunched up nose and lips. The child's hair was currently Weasley-red, although Hermione knew that could change at will. She wasn't even quite sure what his natural hair color was. She'd have to ask Andromeda.

She had just taken a seat next to Harry when there was a knock at the front door.

"Oh," Mrs. Weasley said, dropping a pan with a clatter, "that must be Bill and Fleur. They promised to come by for lunch today! No, no, I'll get it dear." She hurried by Ginny and headed out into the front hallway to answer the door.

When she returned, she looked a shade paler than she had before.

"Mum, what's the matter?" Ginny asked as Harry handed Teddy off to her. Hermione noticed the wary look that had suddenly crossed Harry's face at the sight of the Weasley matriarch.

Mrs. Weasley answered by stepping aside, revealing Andromeda and - trailing slightly behind her - Narcissa Malfoy.

All three members of the golden trio were on their feet in an instant. Ron had his wand trained on Mrs. Malfoy, until Andromeda held up her hands in an attempt at peace.

"Please." She said, "My sister has come to ask for your help."

Ron lowered his wand, but he didn't relax. Instead, he crossed his arms defensively, a fierce scowl taking up residence on his face. Harry also had his arms crossed, but Hermione noticed that his stance was more at ease than Ron's. He looked like he was patiently, if begrudgingly, waiting for an explanation, while her own boyfriend appeared ready to explode at any moment. Ginny had retreated quietly to the side, Teddy grasped tightly in her arms. Teddy was the only one who seemed particularly happy about this turn of events. His hair had changed to a startlingly accurate shade of Malfoy platinum blond.

Mrs. Malfoy had started speaking, but Hermione was only halfway paying attention. She could already guess what Narcissa Malfoy wanted. She let her eyes take in the older woman, noting how unwound she looked. Make no mistake, not a hair was out of place on Mrs. Malfoy's head, and her clothes still fit her impeccably, but her eyes held the same haunting look that Draco's had that morning in the paper and her composure held none of the haughty disposition that Hermione was so used to seeing.

Hermione's gaze moved from Mrs. Malfoy down to her own arm, her fingers tracing over the word that had been carved there a few months ago. _Mudblood_. That word represented everything the Malfoys stood for. _Everything they had stood for_. She thought to herself. _Mudblood_. She remembered every time Draco had thrown that profane term her way. She remembered the sneers. The haughtiness. She remembered being held down on the floor of the Malfoy family drawing room, Bellatrix taking that knife to her skin. _Mudblood_. No. _No!_ she thought. _This is it._

And with that, Hermione stormed out of the room.

* * *

Narcissa knew it was over. At first, she had been hopeful. The Weasley boy had not been receptive at all, yet Potter had listened. He had been open to hearing her out, she could tell. But now, that openness had vanished. The moment the Granger girl had stormed out, a stony glint had appeared in his eye, and she knew that he would not be moved. He wouldn't help Draco without the blessing of Hermione Granger – it would seem like a betrayal – and Narcissa knew that the Malfoys had done too much to the girl to ever expect her to help them. This battle was lost, and for the first time in a long time, the Malfoy matriarch felt helpless.

"I'm sorry," Potter said, "We can't."

"I understand," Narcissa swallowed hard, all her previous hopes forming a knot in the pit of her stomach. She turned to leave, determined to return to the Manor without resorting to begging or pleading. She still had some pride, after all. But before she even moved a few inches, the Granger girl was back, sweeping past her with a stack of books in her arms. She promptly flung them down on the table before her, sending several plates of biscuits flying. Not even looking up at her friends, she tore open one of the books and began to leaf through it.

"Mione?" The word fell as a question from Potter's lips, but Narcissa noticed that he was beginning to smile. The girl glanced up at him, but didn't answer. As he picked up one of the books, Narcissa could just make out the subject. It was a tome on Ministry laws. She sucked in her breath, her hand flying to her mouth. Did this mean - ?

"What the hell are you doing, Hermione?" The Weasley boy nearly shouted.

Granger huffed and, placing her hands on both side of the tome she had been working her way through, she paused and glared up at the redhead.

"I'm going to try to help them, because it's the right thing to do. I'm done with hate. I'm done with prejudice. I'm done with revenge."

The boy tried to interject, but she cut him off.

"I'm done, Ronald. _This_ is where it ends." The girl glanced up at Narcissa, and the Malfoy Matriarch looked back down at this child – a child that she had only ever looked at with disdain. Today, though, all she felt was gratitude and admiration. A moment of mutual understanding passed between them. No more hate. No more prejudice. She nodded at the girl, once.

Granger turned her attention back to the Weasley boy, who was sputtering all sorts of protestations.

"No, Ron. This is where it ends."

Potter was smiling openly now, and he quickly moved forward to leaf through the tomes as Granger held the redhead's gaze.

And then, the Weasley boy broke eye contact as he bowed his head and picked up a book, slamming it down on the table and scanning its contents. The Granger girl leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, Ronald"

 _Yes_. Narcissa thought. _This is where it ends_.

* * *

Next chapter: First glimpse of Lucius and Draco!


	3. Chapter 3: Mercy of a Mudblood

A/N I do not own Harry Potter

* * *

Chapter 3: Mercy of a Mudblood

"Draco, would you cease that infernal pacing!"

Lucius' voice cut through the quiet of the holding cell, the cell where he and his son had spent the last several days. The room was small and scarcely furnished, but well-lit, the lamplight flickering off the white walls and polished tile floor. The back wall held two twin beds; a small table nestled between them sported a few books and copies of _The Daily Prophet_. The Malfoy patriarch was reclining back on one of these beds, calmly reading a book. At least, he was trying to read. For the last half-hour, his concentration had been continuously interrupted by the sight of his only child pacing back and forth before him, clearly anxious and lost in troubled thoughts. It was really rather distracting.

At the sound of his father's admonishment, Draco had paused and turned to look at him over his shoulder.

"Oh, am I bothering you, Father?" He scoffed. "I would advise you to become accustomed to my pacing - as trying as that may be for you - since by this time tomorrow we will likely be sharing a cell in Azkaban."

"Don't be ridiculous, Draco. There are cells enough in Azkaban for everyone to have their own." Lucius had returned his attention to his book, so he did not see the irritated glance that his son threw in his direction.

Draco went to retort, but thought better of it and retreated to his side of the room, where he sat down on the bed and took his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. Lucius spared a glance over the top of his text, taking in his son's defeated form, and couldn't help but stifle a sigh. He knew what was troubling the boy. Draco's trial was set to begin in less than an hour. Lucius knew that he himself would likely be just as anxious by this time tomorrow, although he would hardly deign to show it so in such an apparent manner. _Have I taught this child nothing of decorum?!_

He felt a pang of guilt as he chided himself for that last thought. The very thought of Azkaban was enough to fill all but the most stout-hearted wizard with fear, and now his son was facing a potential lifetime of imprisonment in the place. _No wonder he's anxious_. Lucius doubted that the Wizengamot would excuse Draco's decision to take the mark, even if he had done so to try to protect his thought brought another pang of guilt. _I should have been protecting him, not the other way around._

As if echoing his thoughts, Draco's voice cut through the silence that had fallen between them, although his voice was slightly muffled since he was speaking to the floor, his head still in his hands.

"This is your fault."

"Excuse me?"

"You and your pureblood crusade." Draco was on his feet now, and he moved to tower over Lucius with clenched fists. "My whole life all I ever heard was that I was special, because I was wizard, because I was a Malfoy, because I was a pureblood." A disgusted sneer took over Draco's face. "Tell me, Father, how is it that one of the most prestigious wizarding families in Britain happened to become aligned with a half-blood sociopath hell bent on wiping out half of the wizarding population?

During Draco's small tirade, Lucius had set his book aside and risen to face his son's insolence head-on, careful to never take his eyes from Draco's. _Where did this anger come from_? Lucius wondered, curious about his son's sudden outburst. Draco had been rather subdued since the war's end. _Since well before it ended_. Lucius conceded. But no matter. No son of his was going to talk to Lucius Malfoy that way.

"Are you quite done with this little tantrum?"

Draco's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't respond. Lucius decided to take control of the situation.

"You are speaking about matters that began well before you were born, matters that you cannot possibly understand. You are, after all, only a child and –"

His speech was cut short by the impact of Draco's fist connecting with his face. The older man stumbled backward in shock onto the bed, and both father and son waited with bated breath to see if the guards would appear. It appeared, though, that the guards were content to let the Malfoys settle matters between themselves.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Lucius hissed as he clutched his cheek with one hand.

Draco continued to scowl down at his father. "You called me a child, and yet I was the one who was expected to clean up after your failures. I have seen and done things that no mere child should ever witness. So don't patronize me, Father. Or do I need to remind you that you drug our family into this mess, not me."

"I only did what I needed to protect our family, to safeguard our heritage."

"I wonder if Mother would agree with that assessment"

His son's words knocked the wind out of Lucius' reply before it could ever reach his lips. Draco smirked, satisfied with his small victory, and retreated to his bed, where he laid down and contemplated the ceiling, his troubled thoughts taking over once more.

On his own bed, Lucius grimaced as his thoughts turned to his wife. _No, Narcissa would not agree_. He was sure of that. In the weeks since the war's end, Narcissa had been as charming and graceful as ever; she had carried on as if everything were normal, as if the war had not made them social pariahs or threatened to destroy their entire family. But Lucius knew otherwise. When she looked at him with her sparkling blue eyes, he could sense the anger behind that cool mask. She was downright furious with him, and he knew it by the way that she scrutinized him when she thought he wasn't looking; by the way her tone took on an icy edge whenever they were alone; by the way she had taken up sleeping in the guest bedroom down the hall, leaving him to retire alone each night to their master suite without so much as a "good night." Oh yes, she was furious with him.

And the reason why was currently lying across the room, scowling at the ceiling. Lucius had performed many questionable deeds during his service to the Dark Lord and the pureblood cause, deeds that Narcissa had either championed or overlooked in favor of his "nobler" attributes, as she termed them. But placing their only child in the path of the Dark Lord? That was unforgiveable. Lucius had asked Draco to place himself in danger to protect their family and their cause; Narcissa had sacrificed everything to protect Draco. He had no doubt that she would have chosen to forfeit her magic and live as a muggle if it meant keeping the boy safe.

His wife's anger with him troubled Lucius greatly. Many in the wizarding world would assume that this was due to the man's pride, or to a desire to remain presentable in their social milieu. But the truth was, Lucius really did love Narcissa Malfoy. Yes, their marriage had been arranged long before they had ever set foot into Hogwarts, but over time he had found her to be a supportive and trustworthy companion. They had only ever belonged to each other, and Lucius found great comfort in that.

But even Lucius did not realize how much he truly loved Narcissa until that moment in the Forbidden forest, that moment when she told the most important lie of the war. Glancing at the boy across from him, he remembered how the lie had slipped past her lips; how those around them had celebrated; how he had reached out and grasped her arm as she went to follow the Dark Lord back to the castle; how they had locked eyes and his suspicions had been confirmed. She had fooled them all – the Dark Lord, Bellatrix, his followers – but she had not fooled Lucius. He knew her too well. In that moment, he could have easily exposed the lie and betrayed his wife. He would have salvaged his reputation, gained eternal favor with the Dark Lord, won the war for the pureblood cause. But even in that moment, he had known he wouldn't expose her. He had lived without the Dark Lord for thirteen years; living without her was too painful to imagine.

The patriarch's thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the cell door.

"Mr. Malfoy"

Both Draco and Lucius stood up.

"Mr. Draco Malfoy" The guard amended, "Please come with me."

Draco quickly pushed himself off the bed and made his way toward the guard. Lucius' eyes followed his son's form as he was restrained and then guided through the cell door. Draco never looked back.

* * *

All traces of anger left Draco's body as soon as he exited the cell, only to be replaced with a heightened sense of anxiety. Here he was, barely 18 years old, about to face the Wizengamot. He wanted so much to be at home, flying on his broom or mixing up potions in his lab; he wanted to go see a quidditch match or visit the sweet shop in Diagon Alley; he wanted to graduate from school. In short, he wanted life to return to normal.

The holding cell was located only a short walk from the courtroom, and so, all too soon for Draco's taste, they were approaching the large, intimidating doors that held his fate. Off to the side, he spotted a trace of plantinum-blond hair, and then his mother was before him, taking his face in her hands. She deposited a single kiss on his forehead before turning her head to whisper in his ear.

"Whatever happens, I am always with you." She pulled back and graced him with a small smile, and he returned a hesitant one of his own, swallowing back his tears as he was guided away from her and into the courtroom.

Draco visibly paled as he was steered toward a lone chair in the center of the room and his restraints were removed. This was real. He was going to be sent to Azkaban. He supposed that he probably looked like nothing more than a scared child, but he doubted that would work much in his favor. His fate had probably already been decided.

The young Malfoy sat in a daze as the Chief Warlock began the proceedings. He answered a few perfunctory questions about his name and age, but other than that he was finding it difficult to concentrate. He wanted to cry. He wanted his mother. And Merlin help him, he wanted his father too. His eyes skirted over the austere witches and wizards before him, and his heart began to beat uncontrollably in his chest, his breath hitching in his throat. _Is this what a panic attack feels like_? He wondered.

"Mr. Malfoy" The Chief Warlock's voice cut into Draco's panicked thoughts, causing the young man to quickly shift his attention back to the council's leader.

"This council finds you guilty of the charges brought against you, namely endangering the wizarding world through aiding and abetting the activities of He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named, and consciously serving in the role of a Death Eater."

A lead weight dropped into Draco's stomach at the Warlock's words. _This is it. The Malfoy line is finished._

"It is the opinion of this council that the sentence for such crimes should be no less than 20 years' confinement in Azkaban prison."

At the sentence, the young Malfoy closed his eyes, his head bowing. He was desperately trying to keep his lip from trembling. _Malfoys do not cry in public_. He chastised himself.

"However . . ." Draco's head shot up, surprise evident in his eyes. _However?_

The Chief Warlock continued. "New testimony has been submitted on your behalf. In light of this testimony, we have agreed to strongly reconsider our original sentence."

Draco waited with bated breath. Was this really happening?

"You are hereby sentenced to three year's house arrest, to be served at the location prescribed herein, after which you will be free to resume your place in regular society." The council leader handed some paperwork over to the guard, before returning his attention to the young Malfoy. "You are to abide by the regulations and constraints set forth in these documents. Any breach of such restraints will cause us to reconsider applying the original sentence. Do you understand"

Somehow, Draco located his voice. "Yes, I understand."

A few moments later, Draco found himself outside the courtroom, court documents in hand, wrapped in his mother's embrace. After allowing her to squeeze the life out of him for several long minutes, the platinum-haired boy pulled back and fixed his mother with a questioning look.

"They said that there was new testimony . . ." he began, and his mother simply nodded as she took the courtroom documents out of his hand and opened them, scanning the writing for a moment before holding the front page before his eyes.

He read over the original sentencing, but then his eyes locked onto the first sentence of the second paragraph, his mouth falling partially open.

 _Due to new testimony provided by Mr. Harry J. Potter, Ms. Hermione J. Granger, and Mr. Ronald B. Weasley_ , _this council finds . . ._

He looked up at the Malfoy matriarch with shocked eyes. Just what, exactly, had his mother been up to in the last week? Draco never got a chance to ask, though, because they were approached at that moment by a rather disgruntled-looking auror.

"Come on, kid. It's time we got you squared away."

Draco would have scowled at the infantile address if he hadn't been concerned about departing so soon. At the auror's impatience, he turned to his mother with anxious eyes. She smiled softly, embracing him once again.

"I cannot come with you." She said, "but you can write to me, and I promise to write back."

He nodded, and then, another thought struck him, "What about my owl? My things?"

"I'll send them to you."

At this, the auror interrupted. "They'll have to go through the Ministry, m'am, to be inspected."

"Of course" Narcissa said, bowing her head gracefully. She turned back to her son, kissing him once more on the forehead and then gazing into his cool grey eyes. "Go now, my darling, and remember that you are not alone. I am always with you."

* * *

In his holding cell at the Ministry, Lucius was doing his best to hide his nervousness. He was not a man accustomed to being kept waiting or to being kept in the dark. Strumming his fingers on the book in his lap, he stared absentmindedly before him at the floor, waiting and wondering. He knew that Draco's trial had to have ended by now, but no one had brought him any news yet. He wondered if they would even bother. _Surely Narcissa will come eventually_ , he thought.

But when the cell door finally swung open, it admitted not his wife, but a man that Lucius had expected to never set eyes on again, a man that he had often held in the highest contempt: Arthur Weasley.

"Lucius," Arthur nodded his greeting as his old colleague rose from the bed.

"Arthur."

"I've come to bring you news about Draco's trial," Arthur began rather hesitantly, "I trust that no one else has informed you?"

"No," Lucius said, "I have heard nothing."

"Very well." Lucius noticed that the Weasley patriarch straightened his stature considerably before looking him in the eye. "You should know that Draco was convicted of being a Death Eater in service of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He was sentenced accordingly."

Lucius took a deep breath, absorbing this information, and then summoned the courage to ask the question hanging in the air: "How long?"

"Three years," Arthur supplied with a small smile.

The Malfoy patriarch's eyes widened in surprise. _Three years_. He had been expecting no less than 20, according to the information that the family solicitor had given Narcissa. This was a welcome turn of events. Three years in Azkaban would be tough – just look at the impact one year had on Lucius – but Draco would then be free to have a life. To get married. To carry on the Malfoy name.

He was pulled out of these thoughts by Arthur, who had apparently continued talking.

"Lucius? Did you hear what I said?"

Lucius nodded, "You said Draco has been sentenced to three years"

"Yes, but not three years in Azkaban." Arthur continued, "Three years house arrest. Although I don't believe he will be allowed to serve it at Malfoy Manor."

In later years, Mr. Weasley would look back and chuckle at the slack-jawed expression that had overtaken Mr. Malfoy's face at this news. It was rare that the Slytherin displayed emotion so openly, but the news that his son would not be facing time in Azkaban at all after the unmerciful reputation the Wizengamot had garnered over the last month had outright astonished him.

After a moment or so, he was able to utter one single word: "How?"

Arthur smiled timidly. "If Molly is to be trusted, I believe that is a question that you should ask your wife." He turned and tapped on the cell door. "I'll take my leave now. Good luck tomorrow."

Lucius watched his former colleague exit, his mind somehow filled with more questions than it had before the man entered. _What did Narcissa do?_ He wondered. _And what has Molly Weasley got to do with it?_

* * *

"Just a moment," The auror said as he and Draco entered the apparition chamber, "I'll just need to get the coordinates of where you'll be staying, and then we'll be off."

As the guard stalked off, Draco eyed the room nervously. He knew he had been sentenced to house arrest, but he also knew that this chamber was most often used to apparate prisoners to a receiving chamber at Azkaban. He had learned as much from his father. For a moment, he secretly wondered if the Wizengamot had tricked him.

The auror returned, mumbling under his breath. "I'm in charge of this kid and nobody knows the bloody coordinates." He paused, scrutinizing Draco before his mouth contorted into a scowl. "You Malfoys are real pieces of work, you know that? Who did your family have to buy off this time to keep you out of jail?"

Draco bit back a snide retort as the man turned to another wizard at the far end of the room, his voice raised. "Hey, what's the hold up? I'd like to just deliver this kid and be done with him."

" _That_ will not be necessary," said a voice from behind them.

Draco turned to find that the voice belonged to a woman. She was standing with her shoulders back and her hands clasped before her, her long black tresses, flecked with silver, flowing down over her shoulders. She looked almost regal, Draco observed. She was dressed simply, but elegantly, in a blue-black robe that reached down to her feet. She was a stranger to him, but something about her visage and the way she carried herself seemed strangely familiar. She spoke again:

"If you are finished insulting my nephew and his family, I believe I can handle matters from here."

 _Nephew_. Draco recited in his head. _Then this has to be . . ._ His thoughts led him to the obvious conclusion: Andromeda, his mother's sister.

The impertinent guard cleared his throat at the woman's statement, and spoke as if he were talking to a civilian. "I'm sorry m'am, but you don't have the proper clearance for escorting convicted criminals."

Andromeda smiled politely, and Draco was surprised to realize that this was a smile he recognized. It was the same smile that his mother used when she was trying delicately to control the famous Black temper. His aunt reached into her robes, and withdrew a single folded document, which she proceeded to hand to the auror.

"I believe you'll find that, in this particular case, I do, in fact, have the proper clearance. That is, after all, the signature of Shacklebolt himself at the bottom of that document." Draco noted that her feigned smile had been replaced by a stern visage, and he could not miss the fierceness that had taken up residence in her eyes.

The guard read over the paper, only pausing to look up at her with questioning eyes when he reached the bottom and found the aforementioned signature.

Once she had the guard's attention again, Andromeda continued, her voice hard and unwavering. "You, however, do not have the authorization to know the location where my nephew will be housed. It is a secure location, known only by a select group of people, and authorization is only granted at the discretion of the house's owner. So, please, leave us."

The auror stalked away, muttering under his breath about people wasting his time, and Draco felt his aunt's eyes fall on him for the first time. He lifted his eyes to hers hesitantly, and was relieved to see that her expression had softened somewhat since her interaction with the guard. Andromeda studied him for a moment more before speaking.

"I daresay that this was not how I ever envisioned our first meeting." She paused, tucking a stray tress behind her ear, "but I have precious little family left. I am rather pleased to have the opportunity to get to know my nephew better, even in such undesirable circumstances."

Draco was somewhat taken aback by this admission. Over the last month, he had become accustomed to being shunned and scoffed at by those around him. His mother's lie to the Dark Lord may have helped win the war, but it had done little to aid the Malfoys' social situation. They were now scorned by both sides.

"You . . ." he began, finding his voice for the first time since entering the chamber "you want to know me better?"

"I do."

Andromeda studied him for a moment more before her eyes grew stern again.

"Come. We've stalled here long enough. It is time I showed you to your new lodgings"

He grasped her arm, and in a flash, they were gone.

* * *

The pavement solidified under Draco's feet as they whirled to a stop in front of a group of townhouses. He had only a moment to take in his surroundings before he realized that the houses before him were stretching apart, admitting another townhouse between them.

"What is this place?" He wondered aloud as his aunt took hold of his elbow and guided him forward.

"This," Andromeda began, gesturing with a small flip of her hand to the townhouse with a number "12" on the door, "is the Black ancestral home."

Draco shot her a disbelieving glare. _Is this a joke?_ The house certainly did not look like it belonged to an ancient and noble family.

His aunt caught his glare and answered with a sly grin. "Although, most recently, it has served as the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. I'm sure your great-aunt Walburga is currently rolling in her grave to see what has become of her home."

At her last comment, the young Malfoy smirked. He had heard a great many stories of his great-aunt from his mother, and he knew his aunt's depiction rang true.

"Will you be staying here with me?" Draco asked as they approached the steps.

Andromeda paused at the bottom stair and glanced over at him. _She's studying me again_. Draco realized.

"No," His aunt finally answered, "you'll be staying here alone. But there will be several of us that will be checking in on you."

"To make sure that I'm following all the rules. Right. Got it."

"I suppose." Andromeda shot him a sharp look as she started to climb the stairs. "But also to make sure that you are well provided for. That you have everything you need."

"Oh" His reply was much more subdued than he would have liked.

"Indeed." His aunt's stern visage was still on him as she knocked on the door. "I have no interest in being your jailer, Draco. The wards on the house will more than take care of that."

The young Malfoy bit back a reply as the door swung open. There, much to Draco's surprise, stood the golden boy in all his grandeur – spiky black hair, stupid glasses, self-righteous expression on his face.

"Potter." Draco said as he and Andromeda made their way inside.

"Malfoy."

"What are you doing here?"

"This is my house, Malfoy." Potter said as he led them down the hallway toward a brightly-lit room at the end.

 _My house_. Those words resonated in Draco's ears as he followed his former arch-nemesis into what appeared to be a kitchen. _I'm going to be living in a house owned by Harry Potter_. _What the bloody hell is going on?_

He didn't have much time to contemplate those thoughts, though, because he was suddenly accosted by a girl with bushy-hair.

"It worked!" She said as she flung her arms around him, squeezing him tightly.

"Granger!" he barked, trying to wrestle free from her grip. "What _are_ you doing?"

"Sorry," she backed away somewhat sheepishly. "I'm just so excited that our plan worked."

"And just what are you laughing at?" Draco directed the question at Potter, who looked like he was about to lie down on the floor in laughter.

"Nothing," The raven-haired boy responded, choking back a few remaining chuckles, "I just wish I had a picture of your face when she did that."

The Malfoy heir glared for a moment before turning his attention to the rest of the room. Before him stretched a long dining table, bedecked with various pastries and a pot of tea. To the side were various cupboards and shelves, although only half of them contained dishes of any sort. At the other end of the room he spotted a stove, a fireplace, and numerous pieces of cookware. The room was cozy, sporting a warm and inviting feel even though it was scarcely occupied at the moment. Scanning the scene once more, Draco took stock of Potter and Granger, but noted that the Weasel was conspicuously absent.

Andromeda seemed to notice an absence too. "Harry, where is my grandson?" She demanded.

"He's fine. He got a bit cranky, so we put him down for a nap in the front room." Potter was still contemplating Draco with a grin as he answered.

"I'll take you to him" Granger said, jumping up and moving toward the front hall.

"Very well. Perhaps it would also be prudent at this time for you to show my nephew where he'll be sleeping." Andromeda suggested to Potter before gliding out the door after the girl.

"Alright. Come on, Malfoy"

Draco swore under his breath that his father wouldn't be the only wizard he punched today if Potter didn't immediately wipe that grin off his face, but he followed the boy anyway.

They went back down the hall and up the front staircase.

"How did you end up with this place, Potter?" Draco asked as they ascended to the second floor.

"It was my godfather's. He left it to me when he died." Potter supplied as they topped the staircase and moved down a narrow hallway. "Here we are."

Draco frowned. The corridor was dimly-lit and musty; the wallpaper had to be at least 50 years old.

"Through there is the loo" Potter pointed to a door to the right a bit further down the hall, before pushing open another door to his left, "and here's your room."

The platinum-haired boy stepped inside, and was pleasantly surprised. The room was smaller than his at the Manor – most rooms were – but still large enough that Draco was sure he would be quite comfortable here. A dresser, a desk, and a queen-sized four-poster bed had been positioned against newly painted walls. The young Malfoy walked forward, and ran his hand over the bedspread, which was silver and green. _Yes_. He thought. _This will do nicely_. Although, he would reflect later, his hasty acceptance of the space was probably colored by his relief at escaping a tiny cell in Azkaban.

"I'm sure you've had quite a day. I'll let you get some rest," Potter said, moving toward the door. But before he left he turned back.

"One more thing." Draco watched as the raven-haired boy reached into his robes and pulled out a wand, holding it out to him handle-first. "It's about time I returned this."

Draco reached out and took the wand – his wand – from Potter, feeling a rush of energy as his hand clamped around the dark wood for the first time in months. Ten inches. Hawthorn wood. A single unicorn hair. He had forgotten how it felt to hold it.

When the young Malfoy lifted his eyes again from his wand to the doorway, Potter had gone.

* * *

Several hours after Arthur Weasley left, the door to Lucius Malfoy's cell slid open again.

 _Finally_. Lucius thought as he rose to greet his wife. But any frustration he had felt at her long absence instantly vanished when he looked in her eyes. There, for the first time since the war's end, he found a hint of something other than intense anger. Was it love? Compassion? Joy?

 _She's still furious_. He thought. _But she may yet forgive me._

"Narcissa" He said smoothly as he strode forward, and he was surprised as she allowed him to take both her hands in his. He took a few steps backward, guiding her toward the bed so that they could sit down.

Her sharp eyes immediately flitted toward his cheek, and she lifted a hand, brushing her fingers lightly over the bruise that had formed there. "Who did this?" She demanded. "Was it a guard? They are not allowed –"

"The guards haven't harmed me." He interrupted, grasping her wrist gently and moving her hand away from his face. "You can thank my former cellmate for this particular grievance."

" _Draco_ hit you?" Narcissa's eyes opened in surprise, before narrowing in suspicion, "What did you say to him?"

Lucius bit back a growl of frustration. Was his wife actually condoning this behavior?

"It is not important" He said. "And I don't want to waste what little time we have arguing over our son's indiscretion." He added, when she looked ready to protest, "I hear that you have managed a miracle today."

A flicker of a smile played across her lips. "Who told you such a thing?"

"Arthur Weasley. Pray, tell me, what do the Weasleys have to do with Draco's trial?"

And so, Narcissa told him about her tense meeting with Andromeda, about arriving at Grimmauld Place (although, she couldn't remember the exact location or name of the building, only being in the kitchen. She had a sneaking suspicion that her sister had obliviated her), about requesting the help of the Golden Trio. She told him about the Granger girl storming out of the room, about herself losing hope, about having that hope revived upon Granger's return. She told him how girl's insistence had ultimately led the entire trio to give testimony on Draco's behalf, and to their recommendation of an alternative sentence.

"I will not apologize for my actions." Narcissa concluded. "Without her, Draco would be lost."

If Narcissa had expected her husband to rant and rave over her course of action, she was quickly surprised. In response to her final statement, Lucius just leaned forward and, taking her head in his hands, kissed her deeply.

At this action, the cell door slid open again, revealing two guards who swiftly escorted Narcissa out of the room.

 _Apparently being assaulted by your son is permitted, but kissing your wife is against the rules._ Lucius thought with annoyance.

But as he leaned back against the wall behind the bed, his mind couldn't help but focus on other matters.

 _The Malfoy family, saved by the mercy of a mudblood. What an interesting turn of events._

* * *

That night, after the rest of the household had retired to sleep, Draco lay awake on his bed, staring at the ceiling and absentmindedly twirling his wand through his fingers.

This morning, he had been in a cell with his father, certain that the rest of his life would be spent behind the walls of Azkaban prison. At noon, he had become a convicted criminal. By early afternoon, he had met his aunt for the first time and been whisked away to his new home away from home.

After dinner, he had approached Potter, certain that it had been his hero-complex that had ultimately led the other two members of the golden trio to testify on Draco's behalf. The young Malfoy had been quickly disabused of this notion, though.

"You should really thank Hermione." Potter had told him. "She's the one who insisted on helping you."

He had looked down the table, to where Granger and the Weaselette – who had appeared shortly before dinner – were cooing at his aunt's grandson. By all accounts, she should hate him. So why had she been the one to save him?

Draco sighed.

Potter had been right about one thing. It had been quite a day.

* * *

Next time: Draco's first full day in house arrest.

Note: I'm aware that Draco is not his normal snarky self in this chapter. I justify this by arguing that Draco is experiencing intense stress and anxiety in this chapter, and so is rather subdued in certain situations.

Second Note: I'm working under the assumption that the majority of people who found out about Grimmauld place during the war were either members of the Order (and thus are allowed to have this information) or Death Eaters (who are being systematically locked up in Azkaban). Therefore, the actual location is still secure.


	4. Chapter 4: Friend or Foe?

A/N I do not own _Harry Potter_

* * *

Draco's morning did not start out well.

He awoke to the eerie feeling of being watched. Carefully, he cracked one eye open, only to find a set of large, ancient, bloodshot eyes staring back at him. He let out a strangled yelp in surprise, shooting up and reeling backward until his back rested against the headboard.

He felt a bit foolish a moment later when he realized that it was only a house elf – albeit, probably the oldest and most decrepit house elf Draco had ever seen.

"Figures" The platinum-haired boy sneered, "Potter _would_ have house elves rude enough to startle a person awake."

"You insult Master?!" The creature moved closer, pointing his finger at the young man's chest and eyeing him suspiciously, "Answer. Is you a friend or foe of Master Harry?"

Draco stared wide-eyed at the house elf, unsure of how to answer. He and Potter weren't friends, not by a long shot, but he wasn't sure if he still considered them foes either. At least, he didn't think they were mortal enemies anymore.

Impatient, the house elf edged even closer, his long pointy finger only a few inches from Draco's nose. "A friend or foe? Answer!"

"Get away from me you stupid –"

Draco cut off, though, when he realized that the elf was staring at his left forearm, where the sleeve had bunched up around his elbow in his rapid scramble backward a moment before. There, peeking out from under the edge of the sleeve, was the clear outline of the Dark Mark.

"You is foe!" the house elf roared, snapping his fingers. In an instant, Draco found himself levitating upside down over the bed, his wand lying just out of his reach on the bedside table. In a instant rage, the boy let loose a string of every obscenity he could think of, all the while flailing, trying to strike the house elf before him. The creature just watched him with a self-satisfied grin plastered under its rather large nose.

"Potter! - Potter!" Only when the golden boy didn't appear did the young Malfoy realize that the house elf must have placed a silencing charm on the room.

Draco was beginning to wonder what would happen if the elf decided to leave him hanging there indefinitely, when there was a faint *Pop* and another house elf appeared. This one was smaller, and female, and she was currently staring at the other elf with a shocked expression.

 _Great_ , Draco thought, _another tormentor._

"Kreacher, no! Kreacher should not treat Mister Draco that way. Mister Draco is a guest of Master Harry."

The older elf eyed Draco with suspicion. "Kreacher thinks this one is foul. Kreacher is punishing him."

"Master will not like it, Kreacher."

The house elf named Kreacher grumbled something unintelligible, and then, snapped his fingers again, cancelling the spell. Draco found himself tumbling headlong into the mattress, and by the time he had righted himself, the creature had vanished.

The other one regarded him with big brown eyes.

"My name is Spindle, sir. Master Harry hired Spindle to help take care of you, sir."

After his experience being floated upside down, though, Draco was in no mood to make conversation with a house elf.

"Where is Potter?" He growled.

Spindle's eyes narrowed slightly, and when she spoke next, she chose her words slowly, carefully.

"Spindle is supposed to be saying that Spindle is a free elf, sir. Master Harry said that Spindle is not to have orders barked at her, sir."

 _Of course, a free elf demanding rights. Figures. No doubt Granger's bloody handiwork._ Draco gritted his teeth and tried again, his voice adopting a false charming note that he only used for situations where he was compelled against his will to be polite.

"Spindle, could you please tell me where Mr. Potter is?"

The elf brightened at his words. "Of course, sir. Master Harry is in the kitchen, sir."

"That will be all, Spindle." Draco said as he slid off the bed, grabbed his wand off the nightstand, and glided out of the room.

* * *

Harry's morning had started out rather nicely.

He had awoken at around 7:30 with Ginny safely tucked under one arm and light filtering in through the window. At 7:45, he had peeled himself out of bed, much to the chagrin of his halfway-sleeping fiancée, who begged him to come back to bed. By 8:20, he had showered and dressed, so he was ready to open the front door when he heard a small tapping at 8:23. The tapping had been a ministry owl with a note and a parcel, which contained Draco's trunk under a shrinking charm. He had read the note and accepted the parcel, paying the owl before closing the door. Having carried the parcel into the front room and dispelled the charm, Harry had asked Spindle to transport the contents into the Slytherin's room without waking him. That task dispatched, he had made himself coffee and proceeded to read the paper until 8:45, when Ginny had wandered in and offered to make breakfast.

Ginny always moved slowly in the mornings, so breakfast took her twice as long to make as it normally took Harry, but he didn't mind. He liked watching her move about the kitchen. He supposed they could have the house-elves make breakfast, but truthfully the thought didn't cross his mind until later. He didn't like to over-burden Kreacher, and Spindle was new.

At 9:04 there was another tapping at the door – this time a note from Ron. When Harry opened the door, Pigwidgeon darted through and flew into the kitchen, circling it three times before finally settling next to Harry's coffee cup, holding out his leg proudly. Harry untied the message from his leg, and then fed the tiny bird a few owl treats as he perused the letter.

"What's my idiot brother got to say?" Ginny set a plate of eggs and sausages down in front of Harry, and then laid one down across the table for herself.

Harry stifled a laugh as Ginny took her seat. "Why's Ron an idiot now?"

"Oh, he's always an idiot. But he's making a fuss over this deal with Malfoy, and giving Hermione grief about it."

"What's he making a fuss about? He agreed to testify!"

Ginny nodded, swallowing a bite of eggs. "Yeah, but he didn't agree for Hermione to be one of people keeping tabs on Malfoy." She said, pointing her fork at Harry for a moment before stabbing it into her eggs again. "I think he's uncomfortable with the idea of her being alone with him. Keeps blathering on about hexes and such."

Harry frowned. "You'd think after everything we went through this past year, he'd trust her to take care of herself. Plus, I think Malfoy's been a bit afraid of her ever since she punched him in third year."

"Yeah, well, you don't have to tell me my brother's an overprotective moron. So, what's he say?" She pointed to the letter.

Harry scanned the message once more before speaking. "He's been busy with his and Hermione's flat. Apparently, Hermione owns too many books and he's been trying to find space for them all."

"Hm, and here I thought he'd be complaining about Crookshanks."

"Oh, he's devoted several lines to the – let me find it – 'mangy psychopathic furball"

Ginny nodded her head, taking another bite of eggs.

"Does the letter say anything about our place?" She asked after a moment.

"Um, nothing important."

"Harry James Potter, don't you dare lie to me! What does it say?"

"It's really nothing," Harry relented, "only, your mother has taken it upon herself to choose a new color-scheme for the kitchen and dining room."

"What!" Ginny leapt up and began moving toward the front hall, fully intent on heading straight out the front door and finding the nearest floo to the Burrow. "I swear, I can't leave that woman alone for a single day –"Her rant was cut short as she rounded the table and was promptly caught round the middle by Harry, who eased her into his lap.

"Leave her be." He said, laughing. "It makes her feel useful and we can always change it later."

His red-headed fiancée went to retort, but promptly fell silent as a yell carried down the stairs.

"Potter!"

"Oh good," Harry said, grimacing and rolling his eyes, "Malfoy's up"

* * *

Draco entered the kitchen a few moments later, a sneer immediately overtaking his face at the sight of the Weaselette wrapped in Potter's arms. That was a sight he could have done without before breakfast.

The Malfoy heir was immediately distracted from such a stomach-turning display, though, by a small feathered creature zipping around his head in excitement.

"What the bloody hell is that?"

"That," Potter smirked as Ginny retreated to her own seat "would be Ron's owl"

At the sound of Potter's voice, the feathered menace ceased his flurry and flew over to land on the raven-haired boy's shoulder. The little bird then proceeded to stare at Draco, fluffing his feathers up proudly to make himself appear bigger than he really was.

"You call that an owl?"

Potter ignored the question. "You seem to be in a lovely mood this morning, Malfoy. I trust you slept well?"

"Oh, I slept bloody fine. That is, until I had a run-in with your homicidal house-elf."

"Pig, no, the last thing you need is coffee," Potter said to the tiny avian imp on his shoulder, who kept trying to dip his head into the coffee cup each time the boy raised it to his lips. "What did Kreacher do?"

Draco scowled down at the other boy. "He kept asking me questions, and then, when he saw my Mark, he decided it would be fun to levitate me upside down over the bed. Is this the sort of abuse I have to look forward to living under your roof, Potter?"

The Malfoy heir distinctly heard the Weaselette suppress a snort of laughter, but Potter did not look phased in the slightest.

"Well, you're down here now, so I take it he found entertainment elsewhere?" He took another sip of his coffee.

Draco glared. "I was _rescued_ ," the word came out in a snarl, "by the other one."

"Hm." Potter mused, "Kreacher!"

The ancient house-elf appeared with a small *pop* which frightened the tiny owl on Potter's shoulder and sent him spiraling to hide on top of the female Weasley's head. Upon spotting Draco, the elf gave the Malfoy heir a scowl before turning to Potter.

"Master summoned Kreacher?"

"Yes, I did. I understand that there was a – "Potter paused, as if trying to locate the right word, " _dispute_ between you and Mister Malfoy this morning." It was a statement, but it was clear that Potter expected the house-elf to elaborate.

" _He_ " The elf pointed a long, accusing finger at Draco, who instinctively took a step back (much to the delight of the Weaselette, who attempted to stifle another snicker), "is no friend of Master! He bears the Dark Mark!"

Potter placed his coffee cup on the table and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He contemplated the house-elf before him for a long moment before he spoke.

"Regulus Black also bore the Mark, so I think you know from experience that not everyone who bears the Mark is an enemy. Or have you forgotten your old master so easily?"

Draco watched as the house-elf's eyes widened. The answer to Potter's question was hurried and desperate.

"Oh no, Master. I could not forget Master Regulus"

"Good. Then know that I expect you to treat Mister Malfoy with respect while he is here."

Draco looked down at the elf triumphantly. _That's right, you little demon, you owe me respect_. _I'm a wizard and you're just a house-elf_.

That triumphant look was wiped off his face, though, when Potter added a caveat: "at least, you should treat him with as much respect as he shows you"

The elf nodded in solemn agreement, and then disappeared with another *pop* as he was dismissed. About five seconds later, Draco erupted.

"You expect me to treat a common house-elf with respect? Why do you even keep him on? If a servant had dared to show that level of disrespect to a guest at Malfoy Manor, it would have been dismissed immediately. Do you enjoy seeing your guests treated so rudely?"

For the first time since arriving at Grimmauld place, Draco saw Harry's ire flare up. "Well, you're not exactly the typical house guest are you, Malfoy? I'm not firing him. Period. All he has is this place, and me. And yes, I expect you to treat him – and Spindle – with at least common curtesy. They aren't dredges on the bottom of your boot."

Draco's response came through gritted teeth. "Fine. I'll play nice with the house-elves. And what are you looking at, Weaselette?"

"Nothing" said the highly-amused girl, "just wondering why you're still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, is all."

A few minutes later, having been informed about the arrival of his clothes that morning, Draco exited the kitchen to make his way back upstairs. He wanted a shower and a bite to eat – to be delivered by Spindle to his room – before returning downstairs to go over the rules of his house arrest with Potter and Granger, a discussion that Potter said they were required to have. As the Malfoy heir made his way up the front staircase, he passed Granger, who was toweling her hair dry on the way down to the kitchen. Her hair was flat and sleek when wet, and Draco paused, taken aback by how different she looked without her normal out-of-control curls and waves. Their absence forced him to look at her – really observe her – for the first time. And he was surprised to find that she presented a rather pleasing image.

 _For a mudblood_. He added in his head as he pushed past her and continued up the stairs. It would take him many months to realize that he really didn't mean it.

* * *

About an hour and a half later, Draco was back downstairs, seated at the table with Granger and Potter. Granger's hair, he noted, was back to its normal levels of cataclysmic poofiness. Various documents were strewn on the table in front of them. They each had a cup of tea, which Granger had insisted upon to help "ease the tension." Draco wasn't sure where the Weaselette or the little feathered imp had flown off to.

"Alright, we might as well get started." Potter began. "What do you know about the rules of your – um - _situation_ , Malfoy?"

"You mean there are rules other than 'Don't step foot outside this building for three years'?"

"Well, yeah, it's a bit more complicated than that."

"Please, enlighten me." The false charming tone from this morning had returned to Draco's voice.

Potter exchanged a glance with Granger as he picked up a document off the table. He took a deep breath.

"Okay, well, to begin, there are basic Ministry rules that apply to all convicted criminals. These usually apply to Azkaban prisoners, but the Ministry adapted them for your case."

Draco grimaced. "How thoughtful of them."

Potter, who was busy scanning the document in his hand, ignored Draco's commentary. "Alright, one, while you are allowed to have your wand, you are forbidden from casting any curses, hexes, or jinxes for the duration of your sentence."

"But you are allowed to use defensive spells!" Granger spoke up.

Draco sighed as he picked up the teacup in front of him. "I guess it's a good thing that I decided not to hex your house-elf this morning, Potter."

Potter raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I suppose so." He said, before moving on, "Two, all visitors must be pre-approved by the Ministry, and visitors are only allowed with supervision."

"So, wait," The Malfoy heir said, holding up a hand, "my mother can visit me? If the Ministry approves?"

Granger and Potter exchanged another glance before the girl spoke. "Potentially, although the Ministry's been fairly particular about who you're allowed to see. Harry had to submit three different drafts of a list of visitors before it was approved, and those were really only people associated with the Order."

Draco leaned back in his chair and sighed before speaking to the ceiling. "I get it. I'm basically an orphan for three years. Great."

"Yeah, well, my parents have been dead practically my entire life," Potter said with a bit of annoyance, "and Hermione's don't even remember her nowadays, so join the club."

Draco's ears perked up at this last bit of information, and he brought his gaze forward to focus on the pair of Gryffindors in front of him again. _Granger's parents don't remember her? What's Potter on about?_

Granger took a nervous sip from her teacup, and she avoided his eyes when she spoke. "It won't be so bad, Malfoy. You can still write to her, and she's allowed to write back."

"Which brings us to the next rule on the list," Potter continued, staring back down at the parchment in front of him, "All of your correspondences will be closely monitored for the duration of your sentence"

"Ah, so no letters home about schemes to resurrect the Dark Lord. I'll just have to think of another way to put those plans into action."

"Malfoy!"

"Joking, Granger. Lighten up. I don't want that maniac resurrected any more than you do."

"Finally, and this should go without saying, you should resist committing any other crimes during your sentence. Theft, assault, forgery, dabbling in the Dark arts, you get the idea."

"And there went my plans for the summer. You're such a killjoy, Potter."

Draco thought he saw the raven-haired boy's lips twitch in the shadow of a smile, but the girl next to him looked downright affronted.

"Really, Malfoy, this isn't a joking matter."

"And like I said a moment ago, Granger, lighten up." He gave her the most innocent expression he could muster, "But if it makes you feel any better, I promise, while I'm stuck here, that I'll be a good little boy and follow all the rules."

Potter snorted. Granger just looked like she wanted to punch both of them.

After a moment, the golden boy spoke up. "Alright, let's keep going. We have loads more to cover and I would like to eat lunch at some point."

And so, they continued. They discussed the wards on the house that kept Draco from leaving; allowed items and forbidden ones; what to do in case of an emergency (send Spindle for help); provisions for health care, wellness and other basic needs; specific rules for Grimmauld place – "Don't try to enter the bedroom at the end of your hall. We can't get the door open and we're pretty sure there's something particularly nasty in there," Potter had warned. "Oh, and stay out of our rooms." Forty-five minutes later, only one document remained on the table. Potter picked it up, but turned it face-down in front of him.

"The last thing we need to talk about," he said with a bit of hesitation "are your keepers."

Draco raised his eyebrows. "My what?" His mind immediately went to the goal defenders in quidditch, but he doubted that those were the types of keepers that Potter was talking about.

"Keepers." Granger spoke up. "According to the rules, every person sentenced to house arrest is assigned three keepers, whose job is to check up on the arrestee and make sure they're okay throughout the sentence. Keepers supervise visitations, monitor health, provide supplies and additional support, among other obligations. The Ministry is supposed to assign two aurors and a general Ministry official as keepers, but because of the confidential nature of this location, they had to make some exceptions in your case."

Draco did not like where this was headed. "Let me guess. You, Potter, and the Weasel are my keepers."

"Well, not entirely."

He gave her a questioning glare.

"You're right about me and Harry, but while Ron agreed to testify, he really didn't want to go any further. We had to find someone else."

"Andromeda" Potter supplied, before Draco could ask.

The Malfoy heir knit his brow in confusion. "She has a grandson to raise. Why would she agree to look after me?"

"She volunteered." Granger supplied. "The Ministry wouldn't go for the plan if we hadn't already decided on three keepers, and I really don't think she wanted to see you end up in Azkaban."

Draco nodded, but didn't say anything as he tried to absorb this information. It was one thing to live in Potter's house; it was quite another to have to rely on the two Gryffindors to meet his needs. He felt like a veritable snake in a lion's den.

* * *

Andromeda arrived just as the three of them were finishing lunch. She entered the kitchen in a hurry - her emerald robes swirling - and stood before them, her cheeks flushed and her breathing heavy.

"I have just come from the Ministry." She said, casting her eyes on her nephew. "I have news about your father."

Draco's eyes met his aunt's, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. In the lengthy discussion with Potter and Granger earlier, his father's trial had slipped his mind – and he now wondered if the two Gryffindors had planned it that way. At his look of trepidation, Andromeda gave him a small smile.

"Calm yourself, Draco. Your father's sentence is not unlike your own."

 _Not unlike your own_. The words ran through Draco's head like a spark of fire, and it took only a moment for their meaning to take full effect.

"House arrest?" He didn't trust himself to speak further.

His aunt nodded once, and he let out a sharp exhale in relief.

"How long?" He asked, when he had mustered the courage.

"25 years."

Draco grimaced, but he knew that the sentence was just. His father had committed terrible acts, far more than the Ministry was even aware of. It was a blessing that he would be allowed to serve out his sentence away from Azkaban, at – wait, where exactly would his father be serving his sentence? When the young Malfoy voiced this question, his noticed his aunt's hesitation before she responded. Her answer contained only two words, but they unsettled any notions of justice the platinum-haired boy may have formed about his own sentence so far:

"Malfoy Manor"

Draco gazed up at Andromeda in astonishment. Then, a flash of indignation crossed his face and he leaned back, crossing his arms firmly over his chest.

"So, let me get this straight, my father gets to serve his time in the comforts of the Manor, while I have to stay _here_?" He sneered, gesturing with one hand at the room around them in a manner that made it quite clear what other words he would have liked to use to describe "here."

No one spoke for a moment. Granger was looking down at her plate, a sad expression on her face. Potter's own expression was guarded, as if he was unsure whether to be understanding or irritated by Draco's blatant disregard of Grimmauld Place as a suitable location to serve out his sentence. Stealing a glance at his aunt, the platinum-haired boy almost blanched. Andromeda was standing in the same place, but she had crossed her arms over her chest and was now regarding him with shrewd eyes, her face taking on an expression reminiscent of McGonagall in one of her sterner moods. After holding his gaze for a moment, she spoke.

"Draco, please go upstairs. I would like to speak with Harry and Hermione alone."

"Are you actually sending me to my room?"

She cocked an eyebrow at him, but otherwise her visage remained firm. "Yes, I suppose I am"

With a low growl, he pushed back his chair and stormed from the room, only pausing once in the front hallway to call back over his shoulder. "I'm not a bloody child!"

His aunt's snarky response made his ears go red. "Then do stop acting like it, or I may resort to disciplining you like one."

* * *

Once safely back inside the gates of the Malfoy estate, Lucius resisted the urge to kiss the ground beneath his feet. He had never actually expected to see the Manor again, and while he wasn't exactly pleased with having to spend the next 25 years confined to its grounds, that option proved much, much better than the alternative.

Narcissa had said little to him in the wake of the trial, but he wasn't worried. He would have many years, Merlin willing, to win back her favor. And he could tell that, despite her show of indifference, she really was pleased. Back at the Ministry, she had even gone so far as to praise Molly Weasley's cooking when Arthur had come to escort them back to the Manor - and Narcissa had to be in an extremely good mood to compliment a Weasley.

The three of them – Lucius, Narcissa, and Arthur Weasley – trudged up the hill to the Manor and, once they were comfortably settled in one of the sitting rooms, Arthur proceeded to go over the various rules and restrictions of Lucius' house arrest. That business settled, the Weasley patriarch took his leave, and Lucius found himself alone with his wife. He had no idea what to say to her.

 _Draco_. Their son was a risky subject nowadays, but he had to start somewhere. He figured that the terms of Draco's sentence were much like his own, and he opened his mouth to speak –

Only to shut it again as the flames in the sitting room grate roared to life, casting a green glow over the floor. He watched as his wife moved to the fireplace and spoke quietly into it, and then a figure came through, sweeping into the room in emerald robes.

A moment later he found himself staring up at the rather imposing figure of Andromeda Tonks.

The woman spared an angry glance at Narcissa and then scowled down at him.

"Your son is impossible!"

* * *

[A short while earlier]

Andromeda found her nephew pacing in his room, his face a vision of anger. As soon as she entered, he rounded on her, scowling.

"Are you done with your little pow-wow with Granger and Potter, because I don't appreciate being dismissed like a common house-elf. I may have complied quietly in this case, but I guarantee you I won't do so every time!"

"Quietly?" Andromeda raised her eyebrows in mock surprise, "I suppose you can say that, if you believe that stomping up the stairs and slamming your door constitutes being quiet"

"You had no right to send me up here!"

"Draco, there will be times that I will need to speak with Harry and Hermione alone. You are just going to have to accept that." At her words, her nephew stopped pacing, and leaned back on the edge of the desk with a huff. She resisted the urge to shake her head at the petulant display, and continued. "Now, would you like to tell me what your little act of indignation downstairs was all about? I presume it had something to do with where your father will be spending his house arrest?"

"Why does he get to stay at the Manor?! It's not fair!"

Andromeda took a deep breath. "I believe the Wizengamot had already decided your father's sentence before your trial even took place. In light of the vast differences in the time you would be serving, they felt it only prudent to allow your father to serve his at the Manor, and for you to be placed elsewhere - _here_." She finished by gesturing around the room in mock imitation of Draco's earlier indignation.

Her nephew responded with a sneer. "It's still not fair," he said, folding his arms in front of his chest again and looking away from her.

"Would you rather your father spent the next 25 years separated from his home, from your mother, just so you could be allowed to serve three years at the Manor?"

His silence gave her all the answers she needed.

"You would, wouldn't you?" She asked, her eyes growing wide.

She turning away from him, clenching her fists by her sides. "Of all the – Petulant! Ungrateful! Spoiled! Child!" She said to no one in particular.

She heard a huff of irritation behind her.

"I'm not a –!"

Andromeda rounded on her nephew, fury etched across her face. She noted with satisfaction that he took a step away from her. "I have never seen such selfish, ungrateful behavior," Her words came out slowly, deliberately, her voice rising with each passing sentence. "Just yesterday, you walked away with the lightest sentence that the Wizengamot has handed out in weeks, and yet you have the audacity to complain now? To whine like a spoiled brat who didn't get everything he wanted?"

Draco started to speak – he was sporting his own affronted look now– but Andromeda was not finished.

"You should be grateful to be only serving three years, instead of 25 like your father, to be sitting in this room instead of in a cell in Azkaban, to be alive after facing almost certain death just weeks ago. Do you not appreciate the sacrifices that your mother has made to help put you in this particular position? Do you really not realize how lucky you are to be alive and healthy right now? Well? Do you?"

Her nephew had taken to staring at the ceiling during her speech, but now his eyes flickered back to hers. When he spoke, his voice was like ice.

"So what, your daughter went and got herself killed, so now you think you have the right to lecture people about being grateful to be alive? Get over yourself, you blood traitor bitch. You have no right to lecture me about anything. And I have every right to be upset."

Andromeda closed her eyes, willing herself not to strangle the platinum-haired boy in front of her. She breathed in deeply for several moments, and when she opened her eyes again, her face was entirely composed. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft, but it carried the undertones of cold fury.

"Funny how you throw slurs in my face that could now be readily applied to your parents or even yourself. I guess old prejudices die hard. And for your information, I lose no sleep over being a "blood traitor" - as you so term me - but since you meant it as an insult, I'll be happy to take it as one."

She turned on her heel and headed toward the door. "Do not worry. You will not see me again soon. I will not waste my breath arguing with a petulant, spoiled child."

As she made her way down the hall, the door slammed shut behind her. Gritting her teeth, she stormed downstairs and out the front door, her anger apparent in the way her emerald robes billowed around her. She apparated home from the front step, and immediately picked up the floo powder off her mantle. It was time to pay her dear sister and brother-in-law a visit.

* * *

Later that evening, Draco sat at his desk, staring down at the letter in front of him. His mother's tidy scrawl leapt up at him, and by the tone, he had been surprised she hadn't sent a howler. That _bitch_ must have gone straight to his parents and informed them about the argument. He sighed, and pushing back from the desk, went and laid down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. But he couldn't escape the letter, as phrases from it kept echoing through his mind.

" _I expected you to be a bit more gracious under the circumstances_ "

Code for "stop being such a spoiled brat." Draco cringed when he thought back on his behavior earlier. Andromeda had been right – although he would never admit it to her – he had been acting like an ungrateful child. He wondered exactly how much she had told his parents, exactly how much his behavior had hurt them.

" _Your current behavior is unbecoming of a Malfoy_ "

Code for "Malfoys do not stomp upstairs, slam doors, or whine about their circumstances." Draco knew that particular line had come straight out of his father's mouth. Hm. Maybe if nothing else, his parent's shared anger at him might help heal the rift between them.

" _Now is a time to build connections; we have already burned too many bridges_."

Code for "Swallow your pride and apologize to your aunt." Draco huffed. No. He would not apologize to Andromeda Tonks. Who did she think she was, lecturing him like that? Or acting like she was better than him? His family might now be considered blood traitors, but at least they didn't stoop to marrying muggle-borns. He didn't need her. At least, he didn't _think_ he needed her.

He was wrenched out of his musings by a knock on the bedroom door. Crawling off the bed, he shuffled over, opening the door a crack to find Granger there. She was carrying a tray of food.

"Brought you some dinner." She said somewhat sheepishly, as Draco opened the door a bit more. "Harry was going to have Spindle bring it up, but I offered."

"Why?" He took the tray from her, but leaned against the door jamb, obstructing her entrance into the room.

She shrugged. "I thought you might be hungry. Plus, I wanted to make sure you knew that we're leaving tomorrow"

He gave her a single nod. "Consider me informed, Granger"

"Alrighty then." She began to turn away, but stopped quickly, as another thought struck her. "Oh, I know Harry told you to stay out of our bedrooms –" her voice trailed off as she studied his face.

Draco quirked an eyebrow at the girl. Where in the world was she going with this?

"Well, I just thought, since you've really only gotten your clothes so far, if you wanted something to read, I have loads of books on my shelves."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

"I just thought I would offer."

Draco balanced the tray on one hand while he took hold of the door with the other. "Thanks" he said, shutting the door in the Gryffindor's face. _At least I didn't slam it_. He inwardly praised himself, but he found himself staring at the shut door, wondering. _Why is she being so nice to me?_

 _Friend or Foe_? The house-elf's demand from that morning once again sprung to his mind, and, once again, Draco could not settle on a convincing answer.

The lines had certainly become blurred.

* * *

Narcissa found her husband in the Heritage room, walking carefully among the shards of obsidian glass that still littered the floor (the Malfoy matriarch had expressly forbidden the house-elves from cleaning it up). He had, she noticed, repaired the decanter, and was currently grasping a glass of red wine. She paused just inside the doorway, unsure. She was not afraid of his reaction – however volatile she expected it to be – but she was not in the mood to begin a lengthy argument.

Lucius looked up, and to her surprise, graced her with a small smile. He approached the decanter and poured a second glass. She made her way toward him, careful of her steps. As she took the proffered drink, he spoke.

"I see that you've decided to redecorate." He downed the last of his wine and refilled his glass.

"Yes, I thought the room was a bit too _dark_ for my tastes"

"Hm." He said, heading toward the door, his drink still in hand. "Maybe it's an improvement."

And with that, he strode out of the room.

 _Yes_ , Narcissa thought, staring after him, _maybe it is._

* * *

Next Time: Moments from Draco's first few days alone.

A/N: I know that house-elves do no use personal pronouns to refer to themselves, and that I have Spindle refer to herself as "her" at one point. I did this because I believe Spindle is basically repeating what Harry has told her to say if Draco is rude to her.

Reviews welcome!


	5. Chapter 5: The Power of Words

A/N: I do not own HP

Please Read and Respond!

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Chapter 5: The Power of Words

Harry had barely been at Hogwarts for half a day when he was alerted to a breach of the wards at Grimmauld Place. Luckily, he had been working on repairing the gates, so he quickly sent a messenger patronus up to the castle to let Hermione know that he would take care of it - the two of them had been practicing that form of communication all summer - and then stepped outside the entrance to the castle grounds to disapparate.

A few seconds later, he appeared on the top step of Grimmauld Place. The front door stood swung wide open, with Malfoy sprawled on his back in the front hall, looking for all the world like he had just had the breath knocked out of him.

"Oy, Potter," he said through raspy breaths, "Your bloody house is trying to kill me."

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Attempting to escape already, Malfoy? I'd have thought you'd at least last a week."

Malfoy scowled. "That's not –," He paused as he sat up a bit and rested on his elbows, nodding once at a point past Harry. "I was trying to _persuade_ Archimedes to come inside."

 _Archimedes?_

Harry turned to find a large eagle owl perched just out of reach of the doorway.

"Persuade?" Harry asked.

"Well, I may have threatened to turn him to ash if he didn't comply." Malfoy sat up further.

"How'd you end up down there?"

"The wards apparently rejected my attempts to collect the feathered beast."

The owl gazed down at Malfoy with an imperial air, but flitted its amber eyes to Harry as the raven-haired boy approached and held out his arm. The owl glided down from its post and landed on the outstretched perch with a single flap of its wings, and Harry was just turning to come back inside the house when there was a *pop* of apparition on the front step.

That *pop* heralded the arrival of Andromeda and baby Teddy, who was currently asleep in his grandmother's arms. The woman only cast a passing glance at her nephew sprawled on the floor before turning to Harry.

"I was alerted to a breach of the wards. Anything we need to report?" Her tone was formal, business-like.

Harry shook his head. "No, just a mishap with an owl" He said, nodding toward the large bird still perched on his arm.

"I see." Andromeda pursed her lips, turning her frigid gaze back to her nephew.

Harry eyed Malfoy himself. The other boy had gone silent. He was still sitting on the floor, but now had his arms wrapped around his knees and he was staring at the wooden grain of the floorboards, as if determined to avoid his aunt's gaze.

 _Okay, something definitely happened between these two yesterday_. Harry thought. Andromeda had certainly never looked at _him_ in the manner that she was eyeing her nephew. The look spoke of irritation, austerity, and disappointment all at once. _Malfoy, mate, what did you do?_

"Draco," Andromeda spoke up, pulling Harry from his thoughts, "Anything you want to say? To me, perhaps?"

The boy on the floor glanced up through the blond fringe that had settled over his eyes.

"No," he said, his voice coming out in almost a snarl, "I have absolutely nothing to say to _you_ "

"So be it."

With that, Andromeda disapparated without even a parting glance at Harry.

"Malfoy –"

"Don't start, Potter. Just give me my bird and go."

And so, Harry did just that.

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Draco spent the remainder of Sunday trying to placate Archimedes. It wouldn't do to have Potter constantly retrieving the obstinate bird from the front stoop. He didn't want to give the golden boy any more reason to pop by than necessary. And that went doubly for his aunt.

 _Petulant, spoiled child_! Andromeda's words from the day before echoed through his thoughts as he tried to tempt Archimedes down from the top of the kitchen cupboards with an owl treat.

 _She doesn't know me!_ He reassured himself. _If anything, Potter's the spoiled one. Poor Potter, "Savior of the wizarding world" – and all the while the Dark Lord regarded the rest of us as mere children. What makes Potter so special, anyway?_

These sorts of musings filled the Malfoy heir's thoughts as he attempted to appease his owl, who proved decidedly difficult to mollify. Draco knew why. He had spent the better part of the last two years distracted and distraught, which had led him to be rather inattentive to his familiar during that time. He had often meant to visit the bird in the Manor's owlery in the weeks since the Dark Lord's defeat, but having his entire world-view turned on end had kept him resigned to his own quarters, brooding over what, exactly, he now believed. He would just have to be patient with the bird, he supposed.

On Monday, Draco explored the house. On the ground floor and lower level, he tallied the dining room, parlor, kitchen, pantry, potions lab, a half-bath, a peculiar set of shrunken house-elf heads ( _I'm surprised Granger hasn't had a meltdown over these_ , Draco thought upon observing them closer) and a terrifying portrait of his great-aunt that screamed at him when he tripped over the umbrella stand. He had called the house-elves for help, but Spindle just covered her ears in terror until Draco dismissed her, and the one called Kreacher only made the situation worse by feeding the dreadful woman stories about the Malfoys as blood traitors. Draco eventually just closed the curtains over his great-aunt's face and cast a silencing spell over that portion of the front hall, and then served the infuriating house-elf a good kick in the backside before heading upstairs.

The first floor contained the bedroom belonging to Potter and the Weaselette, a bathroom, and the drawing room. Purposefully ignoring Potter's demand for him to keep out, Draco began his investigation of this floor by examining the bedroom. He guessed that it had been redecorated in recent years, since its sickeningly Gryffindor burgundy walls and sunlit windows contrasted sharply with the gloomy nature of the remainder of the house. The room held few personal artifacts – most of Potter's belongings had been moved to his and the Weaselette's new house – but Draco did note several framed photographs of the golden trio on the dresser, and the bedside table hosted a couple of quidditch books that the Malfoy heir had already read. He seriously considered jumping up and down on the bed like a toddler – just for the sake of untidying the room a bit – but he quickly refrained once he remembered who shared those bedsheets. _Ugh_. He settled for turning all the pictures facedown.

Once satisfied with his inspection of Potter's bedroom, he moved on to the drawing room, which occupied him for the better part of the morning. The room contained several large windows that overlooked the front of the house. At one end stood a fireplace with two sofas set before it. But what really captivated Draco's attention was the tapestry of the Black family tree, which was considerably more fleshed out than the truncated Black ancestral chart at the Manor. Unlike the one at home, this record had several names burned off – evidence, Draco supposed, of Walburga Black's infamous temper. The Malfoy heir quickly located his own name, although once he found it he was not overly impressed with the accompanying portrait. _My face doesn't look like that!_ He thought, as he took in the pinched lips of his portrait. _It looks like I swallowed a lemon. Or maybe 20 lemons._ Admittedly, though, no one seemed to come across as particularly flattering on this version of the family tree, he noted. He spent the better part of an hour peering over his ancestors, taking in names and dates that he had long since forgotten.

 _I forgot that Potter is Mother's second cousin._ He mused, as another thought struck him. He and Potter had the same Black blood running through their veins.

 _Although Potter's is dirtier than mine_. Draco added, as an afterthought. He musn't go too far down the track in considering himself and the golden boy equals. Potter did have a muggle-born mother, after all.

But a voice in the back of the platinum-haired boy's mind chose that moment to nettle him. _Yes, but that didn't stop Potter from becoming the savior of the wizarding world – twice over_. _And what are you? A blood traitor? A death eater? A coward?_

"No!" Draco yelled, slashing down angrily with his wand as he sought to drive the little nettling voice from his mind.

A moment later he realized that he had slashed right through his own portrait.

Shaking his head and collecting himself, he turned and sauntered out of the room. Time to explore the rest of the house.

Draco was already rather familiar with the second floor where his bedroom was located. Across the hall from his bedroom he found a small study, complete with an antique desk and chair, bookshelves, some wall-cabinets, and a garish sofa that looked like it came straight out of the 1890s. The bookshelves were fairly empty, but Draco was pleased to discover a stash of liquor in the back of one of the cabinets. He quickly conjured a glass and poured himself a drink. And then another. _Three years in this house may turn me into an alcoholic._ He thought before vanishing the glass and moving on.

Next to the study was his bathroom, and at the end of the hall was the room that Potter had warned him about entering on his first full day at Grimmauld Place – the one that supposedly held something particularly nasty. Standing in the middle of the hallway, the Malfoy heir crossed his arms across his chest and stared at the door with narrowed eyes. The door remained fast shut, as if taunting the boy, daring him to break inside.

Well, Draco was never one to back down from a challenge. Especially one issued by a door.

He approached and turned the knob, but found the room locked.

"Alohomora" He incanted. Nothing

He spent the next quarter of an hour trying out every advanced unlocking spell he could think of, all to no effect.

 _Alright. Time for a different approach_.

"Bombarda!" He yelled, determined to blast the door to pieces. Instead, he stood in shock as the door merely absorbed the spell. He tried various other blasting spells, only to have the door absorb them all.

If he had turned around, he would have noticed a rather disgruntled house-elf watching him from the staircase, taking in his fascination with the door.

A short while later, irritated at his lack of success, Draco made his way up to the third floor, which housed several bedrooms and bathrooms. The boy was surprised to find that the master bedroom contained numerous animal skeletons and feathers. Large gouge marks were slashed across the hardwood floor and even into the plaster on the walls in some places.

 _What in bloody hell were they keeping in here?_ He wondered.

An inspection of one of the feathers gave him his answer. _That blasted hippogriff! Just wait until I tell Father about this!_

 _That is, if Father is still speaking to me_.

Stifling an irritated growl, he stormed out of the master bedroom and into the next room. One look told him that it had to belong to Granger.

In way of furniture, the room contained a queen-sized bed, a dresser (topped with framed photographs, like Potter's room), and a desk. The entire back wall was lined with bookshelves, which were mostly full. Draco made his way past the wardrobe, pausing only to pick up a photograph of two people he didn't recognize, a man and a woman. The man had short, bushy brown hair and brown eyes, while the woman had green eyes that shined out from under a crop of darker brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. They were sitting on a sofa, two cups of tea on the coffee table before them, smiling but not moving like in wizard photographs. _These must be Granger's parents._

He set the picture down and went to contemplate the books. After all, Granger had given him permission to read what he wanted. One bookshelf held a variety of wizarding texts: _Hogwarts, a History_ , a battered copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ , a few bestsellers from the last several years, some first and second year textbooks. Draco had already read most of these. The second bookshelf contained reference books: dictionaries, thesauruses, a few encyclopedias – both muggle and wizarding. The boy picked up one of the muggle encyclopedias and thumbed through it, pausing only once to read an entry about television and motion pictures.

"Only muggles would need stories acted out to understand them. Pathetic." He muttered, snapping the book shut and placing it back on the shelf. He was secretly impressed, though. _I thought muggles were primitive. How did they manage to come up with something like that?_

The third bookshelf interested Draco the most, although he would never admit that out loud. The shelf contained scores of muggle literature. The Malfoy heir scanned over the authors: Bronte, Wharton, Austen, another Bronte, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Tolkien, Carroll, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Alcott, Lee, King, Dahl, Plath, Beckett, Chopin, Baldwin, Thoreau, Woolf, Shakespeare ( _Well, at least that one I recognize_. He thought. Even wizards knew who Shakespeare was).

Most of the books looked boring or, worse, girly. Draco eventually chose one by King, because if he was going to read muggle works, then he was going to make damn sure that he was reading someone who sounded royal. There were actually two Kings – one named Stephen and another named Martin Luther. He chose Martin Luther, because it sounded more romanesque than a mere Stephen. Maybe this Martin Luther was a great warrior.

 _Jr_? He noted, as he glanced over the front cover. Why not Martin Luther King II? Shaking his head, he scanned the back cover. Apparently this King had been a leader in some sort of civil skirmish in the Americas. _Muggles_ , he thought, _always fighting amongst themselves_. _They really are primitive._

 _As if wizards are any better_. The nettling voice in the back of his mind offered.

He ignored it.

Tucking the book back onto the shelf, he exited the room empty-handed and retreated back to his own bedroom, content to explore the rest of the house another day.

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Draco lasted until the following Monday before he returned to Granger's room in search of entertainment. He had spent the remainder of the week in a perpetual state of boredom, due mainly to the fact that none of his belongings other than his clothes had arrived. On Tuesday, he had sent letters out to his old Slytherin cohort, many of whom had not spoken to him much since sixth year.

The response had been less than enthusiastic.

Pansy Parkinson had started up a relationship with a boy from Durmstrang, and had informed Draco in no uncertain terms that her father had forbidden her from conversing with the Malfoys. Well, no great loss there. Pansy was annoying at the best of times, and Draco had no desire to become the focus of her affections again. Theodore Nott sent a letter full of vitriolic phrases that could not be repeated in polite company. Draco didn't blame him. After all, Nott Sr. was a Death Eater, and so Narcissa's betrayal of the Dark Lord had inadvertently landed him in Azkaban. The Malfoy heir remembered all too well the anger he had felt towards Potter when his own father had been thrown in Azkaban at the end of fifth year, and he reckoned that Theo probably felt the same way toward him. Blaise Zabini's response was reserved, yet cordial. His family, while pureblood, had steered clear of the Dark Lord's influence, and so the Malfoys' actions had not directly affected him. Draco knew that Blaise was fickle and vain, and so he would only need to appeal to the Italian's vanity to win him over again.

On Thursday, Draco had received a letter from his father. He had read it twice before his temper got the better of him and he ended up incendio-ing the whole thing, watching as the letter crumbled to a grey ash that fell softly onto his desk. Oh yes, Lucius knew about his son's quarrel with Andromeda the previous Saturday. Of that much, Draco was certain. His father had made enough passive-aggressive comments about how pleasant life was at the Manor for the Malfoy heir to know that the bitch had ratted him out. Draco knew then that his insensitive indignation about his father's house arrest had hurt his parents, and his father's letter was only the beginning of the price he would have to pay.

Realizing this, Draco had groaned and placed his head in his hands. His father now had years to stew on this indiscretion, and few distractions to derail his vindictive nature.

On Friday, after a half-day of contemplation, Draco had attempted to head off his father's displeasure with as humble an apology as he could muster under the circumstances. In his letter, he had openly acknowledged his transgression and asked ( _not begged!_ ) for forgiveness. It had been more of a Slytherin move than a sincere one. While he was sorry that he had hurt his father, Lucius' actions had hurt him plenty during the last few years, and Draco didn't see his father issuing him any apologies.

Lucius' response had arrived only a few hours later, even more passive-aggressive than before. The letter had sat open on the desk all weekend, mocking the Malfoy heir, and every time Draco looked at it he could almost hear Lucius' voice in his ear: "Nice try, my son, but did you really expect it to be _that_ easy?"

By the time Monday morning rolled around, Draco had run out of ways to keep himself busy in the house. There were really only so many times that someone could inventory the potions store on the lower level, or quiz himself on the family tree. He had amused himself for a while by trying to agitate Kreacher, but the house elf was surprisingly easy to rile up and the fun in this little game had passed quickly.

So, a quarter to noon on Monday, Draco found himself back in front of Granger's bookcases, pulling the King book off the shelf. He stretched out on her bed and began to read, soon becoming so engrossed in the text that he became oblivious to the world around him.

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And that was exactly where Hermione found him an hour later.

"Just what do you think you're doing, Malfoy?"

She saw him jump – startled out of his abstraction. He turned to her with a glare.

"What does it look like, Granger? I'm reading. I'm more than sure you're familiar with the concept."

"But why _here_? I said you could borrow some books, not make yourself at home."

At her words, Hermione could have sworn that Malfoy's glare intensified.

"Oh, come off it. It's not like you live here," He quipped. "You're moving in with the Weasel, remember?"

"Yes, but –" She paused, staring intently at the dresser. Something was amiss. "Did you mess with my photos?"

Malfoy moved the book so that it covered his face. "Why would I care about your stupid muggle photographs, Granger?"

Hermione huffed, placing her hands on her hips. "That's not an answer. Did you?"

"You already know the answer. I personally think Weasley looks better with green hair."

"Malfoy –"

"Fine." The boy sighed, placing the book down flat on the bed. Hermione watched as he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his wand, mumbling a soft _finite incantatem_. To her left, Ron's hair returned to its natural shade of flaming red.

"Happy?"

"No, you're still on my bed." Hermione caught sight of the book's cover. "Are you reading muggle literature, Malfoy?" She asked, suddenly intrigued.

She watched as a small flush appeared on his cheeks as he sat up. "I was bored." He said, a defensive tone having crept into his voice.

Leaning over, she picked up the book and examined it. "Martin Luther King is a good choice."

"Good? Hardly. I'd say tolerable at best." The boy protested. "Although I suppose it might be 'good' by muggle standards." He added, lifting his eyes momentarily to Hermione's as if challenging her to disagree.

 _Yes, you were so engrossed in a mere "tolerable" book that you didn't even hear me come in._ She Malfoy have to be a prat every day of his life?

"I do have a few questions, though."

"I'm _hardly_ surprised" Hermione said, rolling her eyes as she perched on the edge of the bed. When he didn't speak, she pressed: "Well, go on!"

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, and then paused, glancing up at her. He pursed his lips.

"Your parents are doctors, right? They heal people?"

Hermione was surprised by this question. She had expected some vitriolic commentary on muggle relations, or an inquiry about a random invention that he did not understand from the text. Why was he asking about her parents?

 _And since when does Malfoy know my parents' professions?_ She wondered.

"Yes, they're dentists." She began cautiously, unsure about where Malfoy was going with this line of inquiry. "Doctors that specialize in teeth and oral surgery," She clarified, when she saw his brow furrow.

"So, doctors are healers in the muggle world?"

"Yes, generally."

"Okay." He took the book from her, and flipped to a page that he had earmarked. Hermione grimaced at his treatment of her book, but said nothing, waiting to see where he was going with this. He found the part he was looking for and continued. "Then why did this _Doctor_ King not heal these people?"

Hermione looked down to find some rather graphic violent images of the civil rights movement in 1960s America. She wondered momentarily why Malfoy cared – these _were_ muggles, after all – but decided not to ask.

"Oh, he's not that type of doctor."

She glanced back up to find the boy giving her a rather confused glare.

 _Only Malfoy could manage to look confused and pompous at the same time_.

"But you said –"

"I know, I know, but a 'doctor" can also be someone who has earned their doctorate – someone who is an expert in a field of study." She added, rather clinically.

"So what is this Doctor King an expert at?" Malfoy asked, absent-mindedly picking at a loose thread on the comforter.

Hermione flicked her wand and repaired the thread before answering that Martin Luther King was a doctor of Theology. The boy contemplated her answer for a moment before speaking again.

"So, spiritual matters?"

"Yes"

"Not a healer, then?"

"Well, you could argue that he is a healer, in a sense. A healer of the soul."

Malfoy snorted. "And how does he perform this soul-healing, if you will?"

Hermione shrugged. She had never been particularly invested in matters of 1960s American politics. She was British, after all. "Through his words, I suppose. His speeches have touched a lot of people."

"That's stupid."

"What, you don't think words have the power to heal?"

Malfoy leaned back against the headboard. "Not particularly." He said, as he traced a crack in the wall above him with his pointer finger.

Hermione eyed the boy before her incredulously. "You're a wizard!"

He cocked an eyebrow. "How observant of you, Granger."

"That's not what I –." Letting out an exasperated sigh, the bushy-haired girl stood up, gripping the bedpost nearest her. "What I mean is that you, of all people, should be rather aware of how powerful words can be. You use them every day to perform incantations."

"That's different."

"How?"

The boy rolled his eyes, as if he thought the answer should be obvious. "Those words have magic behind them."

"I see." Hermione pursed her lips. "So words can't be powerful on their own, without magic?"

Malfoy granted her a single nod of acquiescence.

"Hm." Hermione said, nodding to herself as she walked around to the side of the bed where the platinum-haired boy was resting. "So tell me, Malfoy, do you believe that words – and I'm talking about ordinary, conversational, non-magical words here – do you believe that those type of words have the ability to harm someone, to hurt them?"

"We've already established that _those type of words_ do not have any power on their own." He answered, emphasizing his enunciation of her own words back to her, a sardonic smile playing across his lips.

"Of course." Hermione leaned in closer to her former tormentor, watching in satisfaction as his eyes grew a little wider. When she spoke again, her words came out in just above a whisper. "So when you called me a mudblood in second year, you didn't say it to hurt me, right?"

 _Well, that certainly wiped the smirk off Malfoy's face._

"That's not the same -"

"It's not?" She asked, cutting him off sharply. "I suppose the term 'muggle-born' would have cut just as deep, then? That it, like you're beloved 'mudblood,' would have sent me scurrying back to my dorm in tears?" She straightened up, traces of anger seeping into her tone. Rolling up her sleeve, she freed her left forearm so that her scar was clearly visible. "That _that_ word would have the same effect as this ugly one -" She tapped the scar with her finger, "-carved into my skin, for eternity?

Malfoy swallowed, hard. His eyes remained transfixed on her scar.

For a moment, Hermione thought she saw the same haunted look she had seen in the Daily Prophet ghost over his face. _Does my scar bother him too?_ She watched as he tugged his left sleeve down as far as it would go. _Or . . . maybe he has his own scars to contend with._

An instant later, though, his expression had hardened again.

"What's your point, Granger?" His voice was quiet.

"My _point_ –" She hissed, restoring her sleeve to its rightful position, "is that ordinary words can be powerful, even without magic."

Malfoy continued to stare at her left arm, as if he could still see _that_ word imprinted underneath her sleeve.

The room fell silent.

"It's interesting -" Hermione began as a thought struck her.

The boy glanced up at her, curiosity in his eyes. "What's interesting?"

"Just –." She picked up the book, which had lain forgotten on her bed, and began to leaf through it, unfolding the corners of pages that the boy had earmarked. "Just that you've been contending that words don't have power without magic, and yet your own mother demonstrated their power at the war's end. It took, what, a single lie - a single _word_ \- to compromise Voldemort?"

Hermione caught Malfoy's flinch at Voldemort's name – a slight flinch, but a flinch nonetheless.

"Aha!" She snapped the book shut and tossed it onto the bed. "That's another powerful word."

The boy growled – out of frustration, Hermione assumed. "Do you have to be so irritating all the time, Granger? That name has magic behind it as well. Dark magic!"

She chose to ignore his first statement. After all, she didn't particularly mind irritating Malfoy.

"Yes, but I'm fairly certain that you would have flinched even without the taboo."

"I didn't flinch." He asserted petulantly as he crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the hardwood floor beside the bed.

"Hm." Hermione nodded her head, slightly amused at Malfoy's attempt to save face.

She sat down on the bed in front of him. After a moment, she broke the silence.

"So, do you still believe that words can't heal?"

Malfoy's eyes rose to meet hers. He held her gaze, and she watched as his expression became resolute.

"A few hurt feelings? Maybe. A soul? No. Not possible."

"I think I can prove you wrong."

His lip rose in the beginning of a sneer.

"I don't doubt that you'd think that, Granger. You always were an insufferable know-it-all."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the statement, but otherwise she remained silent. _Typical Malfoy_ , she thought.

"Go on." He challenged, leaning forward so that their faces were only a few inches apart. "Prove it."

She smiled, and someone who didn't know Hermione very well would almost say that she smirked. _Fine. Let's see how he likes this._ She held his gaze as she rose to meet the challenge, uttering just three words.

"I forgive you."

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Granger's statement took Draco completely by surprise. She forgave him? For what, exactly? Disagreeing with her?

"Wha-What?" He managed to stammer out after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

His confusion must have shown on his face, because a triumphant look had now taken over Granger's.

"I forgive you." She repeated, her brown eyes softening slightly as she held his gaze. "For every time you called me _that_ word; for every snide, cruel comment you made about me, or Ron, or Harry, or any of my other friends; for every time you tried to get us in trouble; for every moment you acted like an insufferable, arrogant prat or, worse, a selfish coward – I forgive you."

Draco felt the heat rise in his cheeks at her last statement. _Insufferable? Selfish? Coward? The nerve of this mud—muggle-born!_

And she wasn't finished yet!

"For saying that you hoped I would be the next victim of the monster from the Chamber of Secrets during second year."

 _Wait, how did she know about that?_ The Malfoy heir wondered. _I only said that to Crabbe and Goyle, and those two dunderheads knew better than to run their mouths._

"For trying to get Buckbeak executed."

He narrowed his eyes at this particular statement. _Bloody homicidal chicken._

"For helping that Skeeter woman spread horrible rumors about me and Harry during fourth year."

 _Oh, well, that had been quite fun._

"For joining the inquisitorial squad under that _toad_ of a woman."

Draco's eyebrows shot up. Had Granger just refer to a former teacher and ministry official as a "toad"? It was true, Umbridge had been tyrannical and oppressive, but the amount of disrespect from Granger surprised him in any case.

"For poisoning Ron"

 _That was meant for Dumbledore_. The boy thought, but he was becoming a bit unnerved. Granger was now speaking with more and more emotion.

"For standing by and watching as your aunt _tortured_ me." Her voice was thick now. Draco looked away, swallowing. He couldn't look her in the eyes. _She's right, I am a coward_. He thought.

But apparently, the girl had other plans. After a few seconds, he felt her fingers grasp his chin, bringing his head back to face her. Her brown eyes gazed resolutely back at him, with only a trace of wetness in the corners.

"For being _nothing more_ than a bully, and for striving to make my life at Hogwarts a living hell." Her grip on his chin tightened slightly. She breathed deeply for a moment, and then let out a long breath. She suddenly looked calmer and a small smile lit up her face.

"I. Forgive. You"

And with that, she got up and left the room.

Draco stared blankly around the empty bedroom for a moment. What the bloody hell had just happened?

 _Nothing more than a bully?_

Who did she think she was? Oh, that's right, the perfect, self-righteous princess of Gryffindor, who never did anything wrong.

 _Wait, "nothing" more?_

How dare she!

 _You're just a bully in her eyes. How could she forgive you?_

He needed answers.

And before he knew it, Draco had clambered off of the bed and was out the door, racing after Granger. He caught up to her on the second floor landing, just as she was turning down the hall toward his bedroom.

He reached out and grabbed her arm, turning her around to face him. A single demand fell from his lips.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"After everything that I've done – which you were _kind_ enough enumerate quite explicitly for me, I might add," His statement came out in a growl, "why would you forgive me?"

She blinked. "You didn't believe in the healing power of words."

Draco breathed in sharply. He suddenly understood. _Granger always has to be right_.

"You didn't mean it." He said, dropping her arm "You were just trying to prove a point."

Her next words, once again, took him by surprise. "Oh, no, I meant it."

She smiled again, and then proceeded down the corridor. He stared at her receding back, dumbfounded. He shook off the feeling quickly and rushed after her, following her into his bedroom.

"Granger, what are you even doing he—," The words died on his lips as he entered the room. There, on the floor, was one of his old school trunks. His stuff. Finally.

"The ministry released it to me this morning, but I had some errands to run before coming." The bushy-haired girl said, gesturing at the container. "Don't worry, I haven't peeked."

Ignoring her last statement – he hadn't been worried about that anyway – Draco walked forward and pressed his wand to the lid. It flew open, revealing various texts, a chess set – _Not that I'll really have anyone to play with_ – Draco thought, a set of potions scales, a telescope, and other odd items.

As he started pulling out his books and placing them on the shelves in the corner (which he had moved into his room from the study across the hall), he noticed Granger giving him an odd look.

"What are you looking at?" He asked. He had tried to sneer, but he couldn't quite pull it off after their earlier conversation.

"You requested all your seventh-year textbooks?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"Why?"

He rolled his eyes. _Wasn't it obvious?_

"Well, in case you didn't notice, Granger, I didn't quite finish seventh year."

She looked a bit baffled.

"Oh, I just never thought – I mean, Ron and Harry aren't . . .Are you planning on finishing, then?"

The question caught him off-guard. _She's doing that to me a lot today_. He thought, irritated. But did he plan on finishing school? He would like to, but this whole three-year house arrest thing was certainly making a mess of any plans he had before the war. He would be 21 when he finished. Wouldn't that be a bit late to finish his seventh year?

 _Azkaban would have eliminated those plans altogether_. The nettling voice in the back of his head reminded him.

"I don't know." Draco said, finally. "And I'm not sure if I would even be allowed back after this whole – ordeal – is over." He added. It was the truth. McGonagall hated him. He was sure of it.

"Would you like to finish?"

"There's never been a Malfoy who didn't." He glanced back at Granger from the bookshelf, but she wasn't looking at him. She was leaned against the desk, staring down at the floor with a single finger resting on her mouth, lost in thought.

Draco crossed his arms and leaned against the bookshelf, watching her.

"Hm, I wonder." She said, finally. She looked up, and blushed slightly when she caught him watching her.

"Yes?"

"Well," She began "to finish seventh year, you really just need to finish your coursework and pass your NEWTS."

"And?" Draco could hardly see how this was enlightening information.

"And I don't really see why you can't do that from here."

He raised an eyebrow. "Have you gone daft, Granger? How am I supposed to attend classes when I'm stuck here in Potter's house?"

The girl seemed to be half-listening to him, though. She appeared to have gone into full problem-solving mode.

"Obviously you couldn't attend the lectures." She said, waving off his concerns as if they were trivial. "But you could keep up with the coursework. Students do it all the time when they're bound to the infirmary."

"How am I –" Draco began, about to question how he was supposed to submit said coursework, but Granger barreled ahead, already anticipating the question.

"You could send the work via owl, or I could pick it up when I bring you your assignments. And I'm sure we could pull some strings to get a few ministry officials out here to administer your NEWT exams. Yes, this could work." She concluded. "The only tricky thing will be convincing Professor McGonagall. But I believe I can. I spent a lot of time rebuilding the transfiguration classroom this summer. She owes me."

The Malfoy heir stared at the girl before him, begrudgingly impressed. He had never really seen this side of Granger. Oh, sure, he had witnessed her show off in class and dazzle the instructors with her book smarts, but he had never seen her in action in the real world. _Was this what Potter and Weasley saw in her? Or, rather, Potter? Weasley couldn't recognize wit if it hit him in the face._

"Well?" She asked. Her face had lit up in excitement. "What do you think?"

He shook his head. "It'll never work. McGonagall will never go for it."

"So little faith." She tittered. "I think you've forgotten how very insistent I can be."

"What, are you going to slap the old crone if she refuses?"

"Oh no, Malfoy. I reserve all my slapping tendencies for you."

He narrowed his eyes at her, but she was already turning, heading toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to Hogwarts. I have a meeting with McGonagall." She paused at the doorway and glanced back at him. There was something mischievous in her smile. "Only, she doesn't know it yet."

A moment later, Granger was gone.

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Not long after Granger left, Draco received yet another letter from his mother urging him to apologize to Andromeda. He considered the letter skeptically. Why was his mother so insistent about this?He wondered. _She spends my whole life telling me that Andromeda is the scum of the earth, and now I'm supposed to be familial with her? What gives?_

In the end, a single line gave her intentions away: "Our mutual connection with Andromeda will ensure that our bond will remain strong during these trying years."

So, Narcissa was using Andromeda as a source of information. He knew his mother did not mean anything malicious – she merely had a desire to check up on her son – but the whole concept made him uneasy. Why couldn't she trust him to report on himself?

 _Sorry Mother_. He thought. _You'll have to be a bit more creative. I have no desire to make up with that woman._

Draco underestimated just how creative Narcissa Malfoy could be.

For when Hermione returned home to her and Ron's flat after an exhausting (but ultimately successful) meeting with Professor McGonagall, she found a single letter waiting for her on her desk. Opening it, her eyes widened as she took in the contents.

She, Hermione Granger, had been invited to Malfoy Manor.

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A/N: For my guest who wanted to see more of Andromeda and Teddy, they will be away for a few chapters, but will return shortly!

Up Next: A Mudblood at the Manor


	6. Chapter 6: Mudblood at the Manor, Part 1

A/N: I do not own _Harry Potter_

Thank you also for your kind comments. I'm really excited about where the story is headed, and I hope you will be too!

Finally, the story took on a life of its own in this chapter, and to my surprise, Andromeda decided to make an appearance.

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Chapter 6: Mudblood at the Manor, Part One

"You did _what_?"

Narcissa only spared a passing glance up at her husband's irate outburst before returning her attention to the letters in her hand. He stood across from her, a scowl plastered on his face, one hand grasping the back of his own armchair in a grip so strong that his knuckles had turned white. Hm. It seemed that her revelation had finally shaken Lucius out of his subdued state; although, to be honest, she could do without the fervent glare he was currently directing her way.

She had merely been sorting the morning post and had casually mentioned that the Granger girl had accepted her invitation to tea this Friday. Could she help it if she had conveniently forgotten to mention that she had invited the girl in the first place?

Apparently, Lucius thought so.

"Why would you invite that mudblood here?"

"That _mudblood_ , as you so graciously call her, helped keep you and Draco out of Azkaban. Or had you forgotten?"

Narcissa was still eyeing a letter in her hand, so she missed the sharp flare of her husband's nostrils at her statement.

"No, but does that mean we need to suddenly integrate _them_ into our social lives? What's next? Are we, by chance, throwing a surprise birthday party for the blasted boy-who-lived? So sad that Draco won't be able to attend. Or, worse, is the Manor to become a veritable playground for the Weasleys and their inane offspring? Because, if so, we should probably move the breakables upstairs." Lucius was practically snarling now.

The Malfoy matriarch fought back a smile at her husband's small tirade. She had missed this side of Lucius, although she wouldn't admit that to him. Doing so would grant him too much power, and she liked being the one in charge, for now.

"Perhaps," she responded, with as straight a face as she could muster, "I haven't decided yet."

" _What_!?"

"Oh, do calm down, Lucius. It's only tea."

"Only? Only –" She heard him sputter, before he let out an aggravated huff and fell silent.

"You will rescind the invitation." He said finally.

Narcissa paused, depositing the remaining post on the table next to her. Fierce blue eyes lifted slowly to meet imperial greys, and she couldn't help but clench her jaw in irritation at his sudden command.

"No, I will not."

"Yes, Narcissa, you will. If you choose otherwise, then I will not be held responsible for my actions."

His faintly-concealed threat was not lost on the woman before him, but contrary to his intentions, it did not fill her with fear or trepidation about her proposed course of action. It merely made her angry, and the fierceness in Narcissa's eyes only intensified as she left the comfort of her favorite armchair and strode towards him, one hand pulling her wand from her robe in the process.

"Lucius," She began calmly as she reached him. While she spoke, she circled him, not unlike a hawk circling its prey. "Hermione Granger will be coming to tea on Friday afternoon. You will be on your very best behavior," She graced him with a disingenuous smile, before quickly replacing it with a scowl, "or else _I_ will not be held responsible for _my_ actions." She snarled his own words back to him.

His eyes became narrow, angry slits. He opened his mouth to speak, but Narcissa cut him off.

 _Oh no, dear husband, I am not finished with my own threats just yet_.

"You may be currently barred from performing hexes or curses, but rest assured, such restrictions do not apply to me." She prodded him in the chest with her wand to further emphasize her point. "And if you cross me in this – if you step a single toe out of line while Ms. Granger is here – then I promise you that I will spend the next few months, maybe even years, making you wish you were in Azkaban."

He grasped her wand with one hand, holding the tip firmly against his chest. "You dare threaten me?" He growled.

She reached up with her free hand and gently pried his fingers, one by one, off the polished wood – although her eyes never left his. She didn't quite trust herself to speak. Her intense anger at his threat had vanished instantly when she finished making her own. And the truth was, she found this return of the old Lucius refreshing, and, if she was honest with herself, rather alluring.

 _Merlin, those eyes_. She thought, before quickly scolding herself. _No, Narcissa, you will not reward his vanity. Not now._

If Lucius suspected anything from her expression, he didn't show it. He was, after all, still pinning her with an unrelenting glare.

"You do realize," he began, as she remained silent, "that I will eventually be a free man."

 _Which includes being free to hex, curse, and jinx to his heart's content_ \- the underlying threat was clear.

"Oh, yes, Lucius, I know." Narcissa responded dismissively. She picked up her clutch purse and moved toward the fireplace. "Please do excuse my excessive trembling at your promised revenge in, what? 25 years?"

"Where are you going?" He demanded, irritation clear in his tone.

"Shopping, of course" She glanced back at him before stepping into the floo, a smile of feigned innocence purposefully plastered on her face, "After all, we're having a guest to tea on Friday, and I haven't a thing to wear."

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As soon as Narcissa disappeared into the floo, Lucius promptly destroyed everything in the sitting room. He paid particular attention to her favorite armchair, which he scattered across the room in approximately a hundred different pieces. Of course, he restored everything with a few flicks of his wand a couple moments later, only to destroy it all again when his temper overtook him once more.

He repeated this process four times before he was finally calm enough to consider what, exactly, had just happened.

 _The gall of that woman!_ He thought, annoyed. _Threatening me, of all people. Just who does she think she is?_

 _Well, isn't it obvious_. A voice in the back of his mind spoke up. _She thinks she's in charge._

"Blast it! _I'm_ the head of this family." He roared.

The empty room just echoed his own words back to him, making them seem hollow even to _his_ ears.

This would not do.

Power plays he could deal with. After all, he hadn't spent a lifetime bartering in secrets and influence for nothing. Narcissa giving him the cold shoulder, proffering snide comments, even making minor threats – these were her normal power plays when they had a disagreement, or when she disapproved of something he had done. But actually usurping his position as head of the family? That was too much.

 _Not to mention the fact that she's still sleeping in that blasted guest room!_ He added, bitterly.

And then there was his son.

Draco would be lucky if Lucius didn't string him up by his toes the next time he set eyes on him.

 _In three years_. The voice in the back of his mind reminded him.

 _And that's only if the boy dares show his face around here._ Lucius thought. Draco could just as easily evade his father's grasp for the next 25 years if he wanted.

Oh, the child had tried to make amends. Lucius had received his son's oh-so-humble apology last week and recognized it instantly for what it was – a cunning attempt to get back in his father's good graces. What did that boy think he was, a Hufflepuff?

No, this, most certainly, would not do.

He had become too soft. His stint at Azkaban had weakened him – had left him groveling at his wife's feet and tolerating his son's blatant disrespect.

No more.

 _He_ was the head of this family.

And it was high time that he reminded both his wife and his son of that fact.

Smirking to himself, he went to his study and quickly scrawled out a letter. Then, he hastily wrote a second letter to Draco. Sealing them both, he stepped around the desk and issued a single, sharp demand:

"Darby!"

A sudden *pop* echoed throughout the study, and Lucius looked down to find his personal house-elf at his feet.

"Master called for Darby?" The young elf gazed up at the Malfoy patriarch with large round eyes. His bat-like ears twitched nervously. All in all, the elf resembled Dobby – that cursed, disloyal little imp. Lucius knew the two elves must be from the same family, although he would never deign to keep up with the familial relations of his servants.

The man unconsciously clenched his fist at the thought of Dobby, which caused Darby – who undoubtedly read the gesture as one directed towards himself – to cower slightly before his master, expecting a hard-hitting blow. But Lucius merely relaxed after a moment and handed the servant his two letters. Make no doubt about it, he generally held no reservations about badgering his elf, but now was not the time for play. He had timelier issues to deal with at the moment.

"Take these to the owlery and have them delivered straight away. Use Hermes." He directed, indicating the Malfoy family's swiftest owl.

"Yes, sir. Darby is doing it right away, sir!" And with another *pop*, the elf disapparated.

A short while later, Lucius was reclining on the chaise in his study when a sharp tapping at the window pulled his attention from the day's _Daily Prophet_. Glancing up, he found Draco's eagle owl perched on the outside ledge.

 _Such a quick response._ The man mused. _Although, Draco always was an intelligent child._

The man crossed the room in a few short strides and admitted the bird, only to have it drop an envelope on his desk and then settle itself on top of a nearby bookcase.

A quick scan of his son's letter brought a smirk of satisfaction to the Malfoy patriarch's face.

He could almost hear the annoyed lilt in his son's voice from the first line – " _Really_ , Father?" – before the letter turned to one of begrudging acceptance.

He wondered if Narcissa would be so gracious.

Just then, he heard the rush of the floo in the adjacent room and a single, incensed call rang through the corridor.

"Lucius Malfoy!"

No, probably not.

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A quarter of an hour earlier, Narcissa had just finished a rather delicious lunch she had shared with Andromeda and baby Teddy.

They had dined at _The Witch's Brew_ , a new restaurant that had recently opened in Diagon Alley. The food was pricey, but superb (though the Malfoy matriarch never paid much attention to prices) - and Narcissa had to admit that she didn't mind the company either. While their attempts to renew their relationship still presented the sisters with plenty of tense moments, Andromeda and Narcissa had come to an unspoken agreement to avoid any and all uncomfortable subjects whenever possible. This meant that Andromeda resisted the urge to take passing shots at Lucius and pureblood society, while Narcissa refrained from denigrating anyone from her sister's side of the war.

This also meant that, for now, she asked after Draco as little as possible. Andromeda seemed to have few qualms about hearing stories about the boy as a child, but whenever Narcissa queried after his current state – whether he was adjusting well, whether he seemed to be eating alright, whether he was getting along with Potter and the Granger girl – all warmth would instantly drain from her sister's eyes. Such moments made the Malfoy matriarch internally sigh, but there was little she could do. Andromeda could be a decidedly stubborn woman, as her marriage to the Tonks fellow indicated quite clearly, and Narcissa knew that resorting to blackmail or similar means to force her only son to apologize had the potential to backfire spectacularly. Currently, only a few delicate threads connected her with Draco – Andromeda and the owl post, to be exact – and she didn't want to give him an excuse to start cutting the threads himself.

Not that she hadn't begun cultivating other means of obtaining information about her son. It was, after all, her sole purpose in inviting the Granger girl to the Manor.

For this meal, though, the Malfoy matriarch had allowed all thoughts of Draco, Lucius, or any of the other problems currently facing her to be swept away. She had spent the meal fawning over her great nephew, and wondering at the ways in which he resembled Draco at that age - well, apart from the bright pink hair he currently sported.

"Such strong magical prowess for one so young," Narcissa commented as the infant's hair transitioned to a diluted yellow-green. She cradled the child in her arms, smiling down at him as he made soft cooing noises. His eyes had been wandering over the various other diners, but her sudden commentary had regained his attention.

"Nymphadora was the same way as an infant." Andromeda replied, digging her fork into the last of her dessert, "Although he still somewhat unnerves me when he does _that_." She gestured toward the infant, and Narcissa looked down to find that his hair had once again taken on the startlingly accurate shade of Malfoy platinum blond.

"I think he looks quite handsome."

Andromeda raised her eyebrows at the statement, but continued as if her sister had said nothing.

"Let's just hope that he hasn't also inherited my daughter's clumsiness. I spent half that girl's childhood brewing healing potions and bandaging her up." The elder Black sister laughed. "One time –"

She cut off abruptly as their waiter approached the table.

"How was dessert, ladies?" He asked, collecting the empty plates.

"Lovely." Narcissa answered for both sisters.

"Excellent, excellent. And how, might I inquire, will you be paying today?"

"Just charge it to the Malfoy account." Narcissa said, somewhat distracted as Teddy latched a tiny hand around her pointer finger.

"As you wish, Madam"

And with a small bow, he left the women alone again.

But just as Andromeda had begun telling the story of how her daughter had once overturned an entire store display of instant fireworks, the waiter returned – a troubled look on his face.

"Madam," He began, addressing Narcissa, "there's a small problem."

"Problem?" The Malfoy matriarch arched an eyebrow as she handed her great nephew to Andromeda.

"Yes, well . . ." The waiter trailed off, and Narcissa quickly realized that his hands were trembling. She smirked slightly at her ability to cause such a reaction.

He tried again. "It seems, Madam, that there have been some changes made to the Malfoy account."

"What?"

The question came out sharper than Narcissa had intended, and the waiter jumped.

"Yes, well, we've just been informed that charges can no longer be made to the account without the primary holder's express permission."

" _What!?_ " Narcissa was on her feet now. She knew instantly who was behind this.

Lucius.

 _I'm going to murder him_. She thought as she collected her purse, barely cognizant of her sister asking the waiter to charge the meal to the Tonks account.

"I hate to dine and run, Andromeda," She declared as the waiter disappeared again, "but it appears that I have a husband to eviscerate."

 _Oh, yes, and when I finish, there won't be any pieces of him left to find_.

Without waiting for her sister's response, she stormed out of the restaurant and made her way swiftly down the street toward the Leaky Cauldron.

However, if she hadn't been quite so outraged, she might have noticed a shrouded figure watching her from an upstairs window. And if she had noticed, then she might have been less concerned about Lucius' well-being, and more concerned about her own.

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At approximately 1:45 on Friday afternoon, Hermione apparated just outside the gates of Malfoy Manor. She had spent the morning fretting over what to wear – although she was somewhat annoyed to find that she did, in fact, care what the Malfoys thought of her - and listening to Ron's various attempts to get her to reconsider. Harry had been surprisingly accepting of the whole affair.

As she pushed open the gate and made her way up the path to the Manor entrance, her boyfriend's pleas came back to her.

"The Malfoys are _evil_ , Hermione. Dad reckons they probably have all sorts of dark objects in there. Remember Katie Bell? What if they serve you tea in a cursed teacup or something?"

Hermione certainly believed that the Manor likely held a treasure trove of dark artifacts, but she doubted the Ministry, much less Ron, would fail to notice if she returned from the Malfoy home poisoned, cursed, or otherwise damaged.

"What if they put you under the Imperious?"

Lucius Malfoy would have to be rather foolish to take such a risk with the Ministry keeping such close tabs on him, and all her interactions with the man had left Hermione with the distinct impression that he was anything but stupid.

"They'll probably make you take tea in the drawing room. I don't understand why you would agree to go back after what they did to you! In that room!"

To be honest, Hermione wasn't quite sure why she had agreed herself. She certainly didn't relish the thought of returning to the Manor, and the idea of stepping foot inside the drawing room gave her heart palpitations. But something of an understanding had passed between her and Narcissa Malfoy on the day that she had decided to help Draco and his father. And if she expected Mrs. Malfoy to look past her old prejudices, then she would hold herself to the same standard.

She would take a chance on the Malfoys, this one time.

And thus, she found herself standing at the front door of Malfoy Manor. Taking a deep breath, she raised her fist, and knocked.

Hermione waited a few long moments before she heard the latch click and the door slowly slid open. She had expected to be greeted by a house-elf, but instead found herself face to face with Narcissa Malfoy herself.

"Ms. Granger, dear, do come inside. It's rather warm out today."

She allowed herself to be ushered into the entrance hall. Her eyes flitted instantly to the drawing room doors, which stood open at the far end of the hall. What if Ron had been right? What if she had come all this way just to be returned to the scene of her torture? She toyed briefly with the idea of fleeing, but soon realized that Mrs. Malfoy was speaking to her.

"Ms. Granger? Are you alright? As I was saying, we'll be taking our tea in the Heritage room. It's this way," she said, indicating a side hallway that led away from the entrance hall – and the drawing room.

Letting out a sharp breath of relief, the bushy-haired girl followed her hostess down the new corridor until they reached a room that she had never been in before – not that Hermione had been in many rooms at the Manor in the first place.

The room was elegantly, but scarcely, furnished. A matching set of ivory sofas sat in the middle of the room, a large coffee table between them, a beverage cart to the side. Of the three walls before her, one housed several floor-to-ceiling windows, while the other two were covered in opaque, obsidian glass. Looking closer, she could make out various names and dates, and understood immediately that this must be the Malfoy's version of a family tree.

Glancing around, she quickly realized that she and Narcissa Malfoy were the only two people in the room

"Won't Mr. Malfoy be joining us?" She asked, hesitantly.

Mrs. Malfoy appeared surprised by the question. "No. My husband is engaged with other important matters presently. He sends his regrets."

Hermione tried not to let her relief show on her face. Maybe Ron had been worried over nothing.

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The truth was, Narcissa had not spoken to Lucius in three days.

Oh, she had seen him, certainly. Just now, in fact. While on her way to admit Ms. Granger, Narcissa had paused at her husband's study to find him poring over some documents at his desk. Sensing her presence, he had lifted his eyes momentarily to meet hers, but not a word had passed between them. She could tell by his expression, though, that he was decidedly unhappy that she had chosen to defy his wishes in refusing to rescind the invitation. In response, she had merely shut his study door with a flick of her wand, leaving him to brood alone.

After all, she had been brooding for days.

She had returned to the Manor on Tuesday afternoon in a fierce temper, and had lit into her husband the moment she laid eyes on him. She had ranted. And raved. And even hexed him a few times. But throughout all of it, Lucius had remained infuriatingly composed. And in the end, he had still staunchly refused to restore her unfettered access to the Malfoy account. She had not spoken to him since.

Narcissa, therefore, knew she had lost that particular battle. But no matter, she wouldwin the war. If nothing else, she would show Lucius Malfoy who was really in charge.

He thought he was so cunning. So clever. Well, two could play by that tune.

For now, though, she contented herself with finding small ways to antagonize him. And it pleased her that he found today's choice of visitor for tea particularly vexing.

Returning her attention to the bushy-haired girl before her, she found the child studying the Heritage room intently. Narcissa had restored the fragmented glass two days earlier, so the early afternoon light once again reflected off the onyx walls – although, notably, the family creed had been erased, leaving a sizeable empty space in the middle of the ancestral chart.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" She inquired as the girl continued to read over the names.

"Yes, it's lovely." Ms. Granger said, proffering a small smile. "It reminds me of the family tree my mum painted on our dining room wall one summer. Although it wasn't nearly as extensive as this. Just four or five generations."

"Indeed?" The Malfoy matriarch had never considered the idea that muggles and muggle-borns might keep familial records. After all, what was the point? "Was your mother interested in ancestry?"

"Well, she did take up genealogy as a hobby for a few summers, though she dropped it when their practice really took off."

The girl swallowed, and Narcissa received the distinct impression that for some reason she found discussing her mother painful. The woman also was a bit unsure about the concept of a "practice" and the idea of one "taking off." Was a practice some sort of bird that flew? But why would such a thing interfere with the mother's genealogical interests?

Sensing her guest's discomfort, though, Narcissa pushed her questions to the back of her mind and instead gestured toward the sofas in the room's center, indicating that the two women should sit.

"Tilly!" she called.

With a sharp *pop* her personal house-elf apparated into the room.

"Madam called for Tilly?" The small creature asked, a touch of eagerness in her squeaky voice. She gazed up at the Malfoy matriarch with big blue eyes.

"Yes. Send up the tea for Ms. Granger and myself."

"At once, madam!" The elf squealed before disappearing again with another *pop*.

Narcissa turned to find the Granger girl staring at the spot of the house-elf's disapparition with a rather troubled expression. Ah yes, Draco had mentioned something about the girl's curious obsession with house-elf liberation. Such nonsense. The pureblood woman was almost positive that Tilly would rather die than take a wage for her work - not that the Malfoy's were in the habit of actually paying their servants.

But then again, there had been one former Malfoy servant who had felt rather differently.

Shaking thoughts of disloyal house-elves from her mind, Narcissa focused her attention on the tea tray that had just appeared on the coffee table.

"Have you seen Draco lately?" She asked pleasantly as she handed her guest a cup.

"Oh, yes, I went to check on him on Monday." The girl took a small sip.

"How is he?" Draco had written to Narcissa every few days, but she didn't trust him to provide an accurate account of how he was coping with the situation. "Is he eating okay? Is he sleeping?"

"He seemed fine, really. Maybe a bit bored, but otherwise perfectly okay"

Narcissa's brow furrowed. Bored? How could he be bored? She'd packed and sent over half of the child's suite, for Merlin's sake.

The Granger girl must have sensed the woman's confusion, though, because she answered the unasked question.

"It took the Ministry longer than expected to inspect everything. His personal effects weren't released until Monday morning."

Of course. The Ministry could always be counted on to make a simple process take three times as long to complete. _But wait._ Narcissa thought. _Monday_. She had sent Draco's belongings the weekend before. That meant -

"Are you telling me that my son went over a week without a change of clothes?" Her voice had adopted a dangerous edge. Social pariahs or no, if this was true, she would give _The_ _Daily Prophet_ something to write about. She would take the matter up with Shacklebolt himself. Loudly.

"Oh, no. No." Her guest hastily swallowed her tea before elaborating. "His clothes arrived the next day. Just his books and other items were held."

"I see." The Malfoy matriarch took a long sip of her tea as an uncomfortable silence fell between the two women. Something was nettling Narcissa about the girl's comments, but she couldn't quite place what it was.

 _Monday_. The word echoed in the woman's mind again. And then, everything clicked.

"Is that why you didn't respond to my invitation until Tuesday morning? Because you were with Draco?"

Ms. Granger choked on her drink.

"What? No!" the girl sputtered, coughing between words.

Narcissa just raised an eyebrow at the child, distinctly certain that she had spotted a fleeting blush on the girl's face a moment before.

"I mean, yes and no" The bushy-haired girl relented. "I arrived home late on Monday evening because I met with Professor McGonagall about the possibility of Mal – Draco - finishing seventh year. That's why I didn't respond sooner."

"Finishing? Is it possible?"

Narcissa did not receive an answer, though, because at that moment a rather distressed Tilly popped into the room.

"Tilly is sorry, Madam, but there is being a problem in the gardens that Madam must see."

"What's happened, Tilly?"

"Tilly is being summoned to the gardens by Minkie and Birnoz, Madam, after Tilly is serving the tea. Tilly is seeing the gardens all torn up. Tilly is thinking . . ." The house elf trailed off, obviously nervous about finishing that particular train of thought.

"Out with it. What do you think happened to the gardens?" The Malfoy matriarch demanded sharply.

The elf gulped, but continued. "Tilly is thinking the Master's dogs is tearing up the gardens, Madam."

Narcissa almost growled. She had never stooped to digging in the dirt with her hands – that was work for servants - but she had spent a great deal of time and money procuring the rarest and most beautiful plants from all over the world to supply the Manor's grounds. The gardens, therefore, served as a source of immense pride for the Malfoy matriarch.

 _I swear, if Lucius has let his hounds loose in my flowers again, I'll turn him into a daffodil and see how he likes being trampled by the beasts._ She thought.

But the words that actually came out of her mouth were decidedly less vicious.

"Ms. Granger, I apologize, but it appears that I must tend to this matter. Will you be alright for a few moments?"

"Oh, of course, but, um . . ." The girl hesitated, looking somewhat embarrassed.

"Yes, child?" Narcissa prompted.

"The loo?"

"Down the hall, third door to the left. I'll return shortly."

And with that, Narcissa Malfoy swept out the door, intent on surveying the damage to her prized plants.

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Hermione had just stepped out of the loo when the distinct sound of crying reached her ears.

Tentatively, she followed the sound back down the hallway toward the entrance hall. The realization of where the crying originated from, though, made her breath catch in her throat.

The drawing room.

With great trepidation, she edged closer to the room, finally mustering enough courage to peer around the doorframe.

She was surprised by the sight that greeted her. There, in the middle of the drawing room floor, sat a house-elf. He looked like Dobby. And he was sobbing.

She entered the room cautiously, pausing every few seconds to peer over her shoulder. She could feel her heart beating against her ribcage as she approached the crying elf.

"Hello there, it's alright." She said, attempting to comfort the creature as she knelt down before him.

In a split second, the elf was on his feet, his crying ceased. He regarded her with a serious expression, all evidence of tears having instantly vanished from his face.

"Darby is sorry, Miss. Darby has his orders."

Hermione swung around as the drawing room doors slammed shut. Terrified, she quickly circled back on the house elf, only to see him disapparate before her eyes.

She turned and ran to the doors, pulling on them frantically once she reached them. They were locked. She drew her wand and tried several unlocking spells. When none of them worked, Hermione started to panic. She was vaguely aware of her fists banging desperately on the door and of the fact that she was yelling, but her own voice sounded foreign in her ears.

Suddenly, she found it hard to breathe. She stood crying and gasping against the doorframe, one hand pressed to her chest. She stumbled backwards, a blackness slowly overtaking her vision.

She was unconscious before she hit the floor.

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Next Time: Mudblood at the Manor, Part Two


End file.
